A Lady in Waiting
by Shadowfang3000
Summary: "You can't always be Batman. Sometimes, you have to be Robin." - Even after the destructive Cerberus assault on the Citadel, life as a member of C-Sec is generally a pretty tedious affair. That is unless you get yourself dragged off on a suicide mission by a one-legged woman out for retribution. But that would never happen. Would it? (The first entry in a potential new series!)
1. Extra Credit

**A Lady in Waiting**

 **(A/N):** Now where the heck did this come from? O_o

Mass Effect was a series that was right at the bottom of my priority list during its hay day. However, I decided to get my hands on the Mass Effect Trilogy for PC in late May and well... The entirety of June was filled with pretty much nothing but Mass Effect! Christ, I had a scheduled two to three hours every day! xD

While I finished Mass Effect 3 on a sour note, I was left with a fascinating universe that was just begging for continuation after such an anti-climatic ending. And with that, I began pondering ideas for fics!

A bunch of concepts didn't make it through the interview: a Garrus fic, a Grunt fic, and a Mordin fic. The end result came to mind after a random brain wave whilst giving the ME3 multiplayer a spin. Why not try something a bit like my TES series, eh? IT'S NOT LIKE OCS EVER BOTHERED ANYONE.

... Oh wait.

 **WARNING:** Spelling errors, OCs, language, backwards attempts at being funny and dramatic at the same time, an inaccurate portrayal of autism, probably a bunch of lore contradictions, terrible accents and the usual mad bantz!

 **Chapter One: Extra Credit**

 _C-Sec Personal Guide and Handbook, Page Six-Hundred and Thirty Two._

 _When greeting a member of the Batarian race (see diagram six), make sure to bow your head as a sign of respect. In the unfortunate circumstance that you are in fact human, diving under your desk (see diagram nineteen) is a viable alternative. Do make sure to announce this sudden action in order to prevent miscommunication and avoid causing unneeded stress to the Batarian who is about to try and kill you._

 _Smile, you're on CCTV._

Alfred Saxon hated reading through the rules and regs while on the job, but Commander Bailey had insisted. He'd read the handbook inside and out a hundred times over during his time in training. In fact his " _training"_ as a C-Sec officer had literally consisted of a few groups readings with some gun-ho Turians with their knees the wrong way around, and not much else. Well, unless you count the buffet.

The regs only had one use to him now, and that was as a convenient bludgeon in times of stress. He could throw the book at any criminal, both figuratively and literally. Followed by the bookcase, and then library - brick by brick. His dad had made a point of slapping him over the head with his revision guides during his boyhood back in Bromley. He knew how much it stung; to this day he couldn't look at a Science textbook without wincing.

He gave the office a rather forlorn do-over, his perpetually disinterested olive eyes spying just enough empty seats to know that something was wrong. Of course you constantly got people calling off sick in C-Sec, or claiming that they'd just been involved in a collision with a Volus trade freighter and were in the middle of filing ten billion different lawsuits. But this time, it was different.

There was a hole in the wall for starters.

Man sized. Could probably fit a couple of the larger Krogan warlords through it and still have decent leg room if you really put your back into it. Saxon, like his peers, had always complained to the bosses that there wasn't any ventilation in their humid office block. He doubted this was their solution though, as convenient as it was.

There was a simple reason for the shortage of workers, as well as the crude bodge of a DIY jobbie on the far wall. C-Sec had been in a complete and utter mess since the Cerberus attack on the Citadel not two weeks prior. The entire damn station was chronically understaffed, casualties having bitten a meaty quarter off their already hard pressed numbers and gulped it down for supper. Combine that with a need for increased security in certain hotspots and the constant expenses on repair work, and they had the combined strength of a naked Quarian with his head shoved down a chemist's needle bin.

Saxon shivered with the draught, skanky air lapping at his neck hairs like a cheap prostitute's tongue. A thin layer of shadow had encompassed the whole of his gob over these stressful weeks. He was probably one of the only C-Sec officers that hadn't missed a single day since the assault. It wasn't that Saxon was a well behaved man who respected the rules, he was just terrified of what would happen if he was caught breaking them. He had an image to maintain.

Problems were inevitable. If you yanked out half of somebody's brain they probably wouldn't be functioning at peak capacity, providing they weren't drooling all over the floor. C-Sec had done all that they could to patch up people's booboos and clean up the mess that Commander Shepard had left in his wake, but at this point they were about as organised as a Sweet 16 once the booze starts getting passed around. Most of the force at this point were just militia. Volunteers with only the most basic of training.

 _Hell, they were about as qualified as him when you put it like that._

This whole Reaper affair was going to be the death of everyone. Now Saxon wasn't exactly a philosopher. He'd gotten an E in GCSE Philosophy for writing " _42_ " all over his booklet, his examiner being about as cultured as an academy student on social media. But regardless, he couldn't help but feel that this war was fruitless. Pointless. He was against it entirely.

Defeat was inevitable - a foregone conclusion. Some would call him a pessimist, others an arsehole, but he was just being realistic. The Protheans had been slaughtered down to the last amoeba, and they'd been a race vastly superior to every single council member combined. Shepard may've been a bit of a badass, but this was far beyond even his capabilities.

In his opinion at least.

To be fair he wasn't alone. Even now hundreds of people funnelled into _Purgatory_ , eager to just party and snog and rub their well oiled bodies together until it was finally over. All would raise one last glass to the end of the galaxy, and sip at that sweet nectar till they were pissing rainbows.

And while they were off doing that, he was stuck filing papers in alien dialects he could barely understand.

He had enough trouble speaking _English_ clear enough for all the American spacers that came through, all of them convinced that he was an Australian rather than a South Londoner. It was strange how few Britons there were outside the stratosphere of Earth. Were they all too shy? Did they think they might get sun burnt? Was there a reason why there was no such thing as a " _Space Cockney_ "?

 _"Resistance is pointless, bloke"._

 _"Shooters set to bollockin'."_

He would've spent hours on coming up with tag lines for a potential " _Space Cockneys_ " feature film where absolutely no one outside of ye olde pubs would get the lingo, but he was caught off guard by a ringing phone. Of course in a C-Sec office at least three phones had to be ringing the same monotonous tune at all times, but this time it was coming from his mobile. That's a cellphone, or a " _small talky box_ " in case you didn't know.

Saxon didn't hand out his phone number all willy-nilly. He'd never really been much of a fan of the peculiar gadgets, really only looking at it to check the time or to look at his awesome collection of lockscreens and wallpapers. Swiping his index finger across the leftmost breast of a woman draped across the hook of a camo coloured Mako, he checked the message he'd just received.

 _"New info. Get praise. Call back. Signed Anonymous X."_

The pencil pusher's nostrils flared indignantly, his large digit oafishly stabbing at buttons just small enough to be impractical for someone in a hurry. It only rung once before his call was answered, the other end remaining perfectly silent outside the ambience of clubbing. Not so much as a " _hello_ ".

 **"It says your name on my screen, Swinks."** Saxon growled over the line, resting his pristine boots over his desk. This wasn't the first time that he'd pointed this out to him. It was becoming a ritual of theirs. **"It has an image of your ugly chops and everything. You don't need to sign it anonymously"**

The speaker crackled with either the sound of sobbing or that weird sound of complete silence, before he absently responded. **"Really?"** Swinks asked curiously, before dismissing the topic as quickly as it had been brought up. He'd rather get straight to business. **"No matter. Come to** _ **Purgatory**_ **."** he specified, **"New info. Get praise."**

You always had to corral Swinks in the right direction. His mind was like a sloshing steam, needing firm yet gentle irrigation to reach its destination. **"Yeah, I got that the first time mate."** the human said calmly, curling an imaginary phone wire between his fingers. **"Gimme more. What are you on about?"**

With that he appropriately gave him more. **"Job info. Good for work image. Good for C-Sec. Good for war effort?"** he listed the potential benefits of the task he had in mind. He could probably hear Saxon's lips curling into a grin, producing that icky wet sound that tended to ruin dates at the first base. **"Promotion maybe? Pay rise?"**

 **"Now that's a language I understand."** the desk worker gave his best smirk, which only seemed to bother a group of Asari in the passenger lounge.

Swinks took this as a sign of acceptance. **"Come when able."**

Saxon hauled his legs off the counter like a roast chicken on Christmas day, pulling himself to his feet and patting through his pockets. **"Oh, I'll be right there."** he assured, glad to have something else to do for a change. He gave a glance at the ever-growing line of spacers, refugees and GI Joes waiting patiently for admission. For one little mark from the red stamp that sat amongst his stationery. **"It's not busy up here at all."**

 **"Good. Will wait at** _ **Purgatory**_ **."**

Touching himself up for the third time that minute in what resembled a mockery of the Macarena, Saxon clicked his authority belt on - equipped with all the gear you needed to uphold god's law - and slinked through the hole in the wall. Those few others that were at the office at the time were too busy drowning under papers to even notice his departure, not that they'd particularly care.

Ferlorn Swinks was his name. A very strange Salarian that had began hanging about the Citadel around about the same time that Saxon had started working with C-Sec. He was a skittish bloke to say the least, but he quickly took a liking to the rookie and stuck around with him.

Supposedly he was ex-STG. He told him over drinks one day that he'd left the Task Group after a couple of years and began relaying information over the black market. Shady stuff, but everyone had their vices. It wasn't as if all that Saxon had ever gotten was a parking ticket. It's fine to misbehave, you just need to know _when_ and _how_.

Swinks had quickly set him up for a constant stream of information, passing him on tips that could benefit both him and the company absolutely free of charge. He'd asked the Salarian for his reasoning once, but the question was dismissed within an instant and the topic never brought up again. Who knows, maybe he was just that desperate for a drinking partner?

Saxon honestly wondered if the alien had something legitimately wrong going on in his head. Did he have some sort of mild mental illness, or was he just perpetually empty headed? Was it ADHD? Autism? Even the way he spoke was off. He almost sounded like the famed saviour of Omega's slums Mordin Solus, if he was coming off a ten year high. A ten year high on _sherbet lemons._

It didn't matter in the end. Swinks could've been a kingpin in the underworld for all he knew, hoping to take a C-Sec member under his wing with promises of sweets and pony rides. He could've been a dastardly crone offering him a poisoned apple, and it wouldn't particularly matter.

After a lengthy ride on one of the Citadel's few functioning lifts, Saxon ended up a metre under _Huerta Memorial Hospital_. Climbing and scrambling through the small gap that opened up to the patient lounge, he and a few nurses on duty spent a good half hour trying to get the death trap operational again. After an over the top exchange of thank yous with those kind men and women, Saxon cautiously re-entered the steel coffin and continued on his descent to _Purgatory_ , shuddering expectantly at every random bump and sound.

Finally arriving at the front of the _Purgatory_ Bar, Saxon had no trouble spotting his Salarian. It wasn't that he stood out among the crowd, but rather that he was waving at and calling for him. Not to mention that he was literally right next to the lift door. Borderline standing right in _front_ of it.

 **"Saxon!"** Swinks waved frantically, a grin pulling across his alien features. The rest of the lift's occupants gave him a dubious look as the C-Sec officer took his leave. **"Here!"** he continued, beckoning him from a two feet away like he was some sort of household pet. Knowing him, it wouldn't be beyond him to start giving people belly rubs whilst whispering " _whose a good boy? Whooooose a good boy?_ ". **"Come here!"**

 **"I'm right in front of you."** Saxon pointed out. It was question up to debate honestly, but he wasn't Descartes or Jean Paul Sartre. You should leave those pointless questions to the prats who wear polo necks and have way too much time on their hands. Commoners shouldn't have time for that nonsense.

The Salarian backed it up a bit, his face shrouded by a mysterious looking shadow. It would've looked quite menacing if he wasn't such a weirdo. **"In my alcove."** he pressed, looking left and right as if worried that the police might catch him. Ignoring the fact that he was talking to a _police officer_. **"Must be secretive."**

 _What was this, an illicit date?_

 _"Hot coffee, Saxon?"_

 _"Gentle, Saxon."_

It didn't hurt to make sure. Swinks had never been the best at holding his liquor, and this was a level of weird foreign even to him. **"... You haven't been drinking those Turian Tonics again, have you?"** he asked like a loving parent, raising his hands like he was subduing a group of velociraptors in a cash grab animated movie. He didn't answer. How disappointed he was in the Salarian bastard! **"We talked about this. No drinking when I'm not here to manage you.** _ **Jesus**_ **."**

Swinks must've taken some degree of insult. **"No!"**

 **"Salarian Cider?"** Saxon threw out of the blue. _Purgatory_ had all sorts of generic specials. Salarian Ciders weren't even Salarian. Turian Tonics were _toxic_ to Turians... Toxic to humans and everything else actually, now that he thought about it.

 **"No such thing."** the weirdo held his ground, his feet shuffling against the floor as if covered in mud. **"Salarian Cider? Never!"**

Things were quickly getting out of hand, and Saxon wasn't exactly in the mood for a tirade outside of _Purgatory_. C-Sec's image had already had a deuce taken on its face after the Cerberus assault. Having a man with a badge throttling a Salarian whilst shouting " _YOU FREAKIN' MUPPET_ " right at his face probably wouldn't help make amends with the people. **"You called me for a job, right?"** he altered the conversation's trajectory, **"We waiting for someone, or...?"**

The speed in which he returned to business must've given him mental whiplash, if that was a thing. **"Contact in** _ **Purgatory**_ **."** he dispensed with his usual succinctness. Good things came to the patient. **"Table one-nine-eight-four. Quiet, secluded, good access to lavatory. No wheelchair access."**

Christ knew why he pointed the latter out. Saxon glanced at _Purgatory's_ doors, a few drunkards in varying states of undress and consciousness flocking around it like the zombies in that one movie, " _Flight of the Walking Dead_ " or something. He knew for a fact that one or two of them were wanted felons. One or two were cop killers. **"I'm a law abiding C-Sec officer Swinks."** he pointed out, keeping his eye on them. Sometimes he really hated having a badge. **"Gotta lead the way for me."**

And that's what he did. **"This way."** he gestured, like a fancy waiter.

Bars had never really been his thing, even back on Earth. He never saw the appeal of drinking overpriced pints with people he had nothing in common with in a vast den of inequity. He certainly didn't get the appeal of flailing your limbs about to stock binaural beats. Wasn't listening to the same blaring thirty second loop of " _music_ " for hours on end used as a torture technique in some circles?

Once Saxon entered, he couldn't hear a damn thing through the pounding wall of techno. Hundreds of speakers lined the walls of the cavernous club, sending waves upon waves of sound smashing against the air like a drum. There was a thick mass of bodies ahead writhing and wiggling in various states of joy, sadness, ecstasy and zest.

 _And he had to make it through._

 _This made the Spartans look like damp cardboard._

 _"Charge once more into the breach!"_

Slowly but surely he began to machete his way through the undergrowth, forging a drove through the never-ending party on _Purgatory's_ dance floor. Some gave him weird looks, dubious about a C-Sec man crashing their pad. Most didn't notice, too pissed or too careless to give a damn. One bloke in particular - with more hair on is palms than his head - gave him a feisty looking wink, patting his back as he strode on by.

 **"I** _ **love**_ **a man in tight pants."** he cooed as Saxon made his way forward.

He didn't have any classy retorts up his sleeves. They were rolled up after all. **"** _ **Trousers**_ **."** he decided on correcting, before losing the courtier in the mob.

Swinks had managed to pull quite a lead over time, his lithe and agile Salarian frame managing to slip through gaps that the human couldn't dream of fitting through. The crowd was getting more and more stubborn, refusing to budge from their positions as if they held leases on their squares of land and he was a tax collector.

An SA marine and what Saxon could only assume was his girlfriend were eagerly grinding against eachother on the dance floor, their bags and belongings sat on the floor between them as if they were performing some sort of voodoo ritual around an idol. The dolts took no notice of him as he tried to shuffle past, nor did they heed his polite cough. They didn't even listen to his _impolite_ cough.

 _This means business._

Nudging the girlfriend's shoulder, he got the pair's attention. **"Look love, if you want to dance."** he snatched her handbag from the ground and tossed it across the bar, no doubt spilling a few drinks in the process. He patted her arm. **"Do it over there. Cheers."**

Circumnavigating the rest of the storm, Saxon emerged from the undergrowth doused in sweat and alcohol. Swinks stood in wait, so he wasted no time in moving forward. For all he knew time was of the essence. **"So what sort of job is this Swinks?"**

Of course he stuck to the big words, like a mission statement from a video game company. **"Big job. Good for work image."** he advertised expertly. He didn't expect Saxon's damning stare, which burnt through his retinas until he couldn't resist spilling the truth. **"... Not** _ **entirely**_ **legal."** the Salarian admitted. Saxon's stare evolved into a glare, prompting Swinks to try and redeem himself. **"... Not entirely** _ **illegal**_ **!"**

The C-Sec officer sighed. **"This'd better be worth it."**

 **"Illegal. Legal."** the strange alien mumbled to himself, as if pondering about the science behind gravity. He clicked his fingers, moving on. **"Both have** _ **legal**_ **in!"**

Thankfully the path was much more easy going when there wasn't a mass of people right in front of you. Casting a quick gander back at where he'd come from, Saxon was shocked to realise just how little distance had been covered. If it wasn't for the crowd, he could've probably jumped to here from the damn _lift_.

Table one-nine-eight-four was the destination, wasn't it? Did _Purgatory_ really have that many tables, or was it just to make it sound more fancy? He muttered under his breath, scratching at his waxy ear. **"We there yet?"**

Swinks held him up like a lollipop man staring down a battle cruiser. He pointed at one of the bar's very few inhabited tables. **"Look there."** he said, before waving at a seated person. The wave was registered, but it wasn't returned. **"Turian woman."**

He didn't see any Turian women in this section of _Purgatory_. He saw what _looked_ like a slimmer Turian man. Was that who Swinks meant? He tapped the Salarian's shoulders, asking for clarification. **"You mean the one looking at us like we let rip a silent but violent?"**

" _Silent but violent_ " wasn't a phrase that he was familiar with, but the desk jockey was right. " **Yes."**

Slowly but surely they continued their advance, the crowd having thinned tremendously this far from the dance floor. The more the distance closed, the more he could make out the Turian's features and gauge her appearance. Regardless, the first thing that leapt out at him wasn't that it was a she. To be honest he still wasn't too sure of that part.

 _Purgatory_ was chock full of legless people, ambling about after their twelfth drink of the evening. Some were better at hiding it than others, but that didn't change the facts. It was a bar, that was to be expected after all. Still, never did he imagine to find someone who was _literally_ legless amongst its patrons. And without a drink, might he add.

The Turian's right leg ended at a neatly cut stump just above the knee, as if an artisan with a obscene amount of time on his hands had delicately smoothed out every bump with a big arse industrial sander. She sat slouched back in her seat, her single foot pressed against the table's stand as if she was having trouble maintaining her balance.

She also appeared to have quite a big sniper rifle at her side, which sat propped against the counter in all its glory. Well, _"big_ " wouldn't do it justice. From stock to barrel it was taller than Saxon on his toes - it was the sort of hardware that could pierce through tanks and still have enough speed in it to turn your head into something that resembled watermelon pulp. What did she call it, the _Elephant Killer_?

A single eyeball rolled to look at him, examining the cockney with a cold calculus. He'd initially thought that she was winking at him, but a quick double-take revealed that one of her sockets was unsettlingly empty and hollow. A rather specific scar jig-jagged across the vacant gap, putting the question of its previous resident's fate to rest. What it didn't answer was what in god's name she'd been through to be in her woeful state.

 _Weight watchers must've hated her._

Looking at the human expectantly, she eventually turned her fury to his escort. She scowled in displeasure, which was quite an achievement with how unhappy her neutral expression looked. **"... This is it?"**

The voice was just the right pitch, at last confirming the alien's gender. That whole Turian sex thing was going to be the death of him one day, that's for certain.

Swinks smiled proudly, like a used car salesman on one of his happier days. **"This is it."**

Saxon pointed at his chest, glancing at the Salarian. **"This is it?"**

 **"This is it."** Swinks repeated with the same jovial tone and the same grin of confidence.

The Turian kissed her teeth irritably, which is weird when you're from a species that has no lips. And no discernible teeth. Somehow she'd managed to pull it off like a sassy Nigerian mother. She commanded that they stop. **"That's it."**

Swinks raised one of his digits, helpfully correcting her mistake. **"No,** _ **this is it**_ **."**

 **"Sit down and shut up."** she said flatly, brushing her hand perilously close to the barrel of her rifle.

Needing no more convincing, the dastardly duo made for the seats opposite to her just fast enough to convey their fear. It took Saxon a few moments to realise that he'd been tactically cornered by his Salarian tour guide, who'd snagged the outer seat without so much as a " _please_ " or " _thank you_ ".

So what, was this woman involved in the job? Had someone nicked her wheelchair or something? Saxon folded his arms upon the sticky table top, trying to give his form a more confident appearance. Regardless as to whether it worked or not, the Turian didn't look impressed. You certainly wouldn't want your woman having an expression like hers when you pulled your pants down.

 **"Did he tell you?"** the oddly limbed lady asked, having no glass at hand to take a dramatic sip from. She remained static, almost looking like she was braced between a rock and a hard place.

Saxon hadn't been told much really, but he'd rather keep the flow going. **"You had a job for me?"**

 **"For C-Sec."** she corrected. That was certainly a sweeping generalisation. You'd think that if she wanted something from the entirety of C-Sec she'd talk to someone official rather than a random desk worker who hadn't even been on the payroll for too long. **"I need more than just one guy. Maybe nine or ten."**

 **"What did you have in mind?"** he asked, giving his best approximation of a charming grin. Rest assured, he'd never picked up a woman with that face. He had to dance with one of his teachers during his school prom. **"Having a hen night? I've got some friends I could bring with me."**

" _Bitter_ " wasn't a strong enough word for the sheer indignation of her expression. It could crush dreams within a single heartbeat. **"Don't try to be funny. You're shit at it."**

 _Fair enough._

The Turian coldly returned to business. **"Anyway."** she exhaled, that weird echoey-voice thing that her species had really aggravating the cockney's growing migraine. **"What I have in mind'll be beneficial for everyone involved. I'm offering you something of value, providing you do me a favour in return."**

His previous attempt at breaking the ice having nearly resulted in the alien breaking this _throat_ , Saxon settled on keeping his lips zipped and instead gesturing for her to go on. He honestly doubted that the human gesture for " _go on_ " was the same in a different solar system, but hopefully she'd get the message. Swinks certainly wasn't being too helpful as the supposed middle-man of this deal, his large black eyes glowing with wonder as he stared at the awe inspiring hues of the strobe lights.

 _It was cute._

 _He was kind of like a puppy._

 **"I've been tracking a ship."** she went on, taking their silence as understanding. **"Small thing, stocked to the gills with Reaper tech and more."** her weapon sank a bit against the table, forcing her to roughly set it back up. **"Who knows what else's inside?"**

Saxon shrugged his shoulders, highly suspicious of the Turian's motives. **"Yeah, who knows?"** he agreed. He wasn't about to go and throw C-Sec's limited manpower at something like this. If she wanted someone to collect a random item for her, why didn't she just talk to Commander Shepard? All he ever seemed to do was listen in on your conversations and give you things. It was okay when the hero did that, but when _he_ tried something like that he got given weird looks. Hypocrites. **"Mind telling me why you're interested in this ship? Or why C-Sec should even give half a damn about it?"**

A vicious mockery of a smile filled her angular features, sending a chill down his spine. That was the grin of someone who'd forgotten happiness long ago. He'd knew that expression well - he'd been to a lot of different schools in his youth. **"There's a ship full of Reapers running wild close to the Citadel, and a member of C-Sec was made aware of this by an anonymous tip off."** she played her trump card, glad that he'd walked straight into her trap. **"You wouldn't want it to come out that C-Sec ignored something like that, would you?"**

 _Clever cow._

The bitch was blackmailing him. The Citadel was jumpy as it was, and having something like this - even if it was a complete lie - reach the ears of the public would be akin to kicking yourself in your own bollocks. For all he knew she could've been a criminal out for misguided revenge, and she wanted to gather a bunch of C-Sec squaddies together so she could off them in a myriad of graphic and creative ways.

But he didn't have much choice now, did he? He remembered what Swinks had said prior, scratching at the back of his head. Misuse of C-Sec resources was a felony that bore weight at a time like this, believe it or not. True everyone would be dead after the whole war was over, but those dicks would find him even beyond the grave. They were persistent little buggers. **"What you're asking isn't entirely legal."**

 **"You're friends with a Black Market dealer."** she pointed out rather matter of factly, shooting a glance at the Salarian with a judgmental sneer as its vanguard. This human couldn't act all high and mighty around here. In _Purgatory_ , everyone had guilt on their conscience in one way or another. **"I'm sure you can come to some sort of arrangement."**

Looking at Swinks' dorkish face for a bit, he begged her pardon. " **If you'd just give me a moment with my business partner."** he asked. The Turian nodded, bowing her head in disinterest. Out of paranoia Saxon dragged his counterpart close and fell to a hushed - if not terrified - whisper. **"... For Christ's sake Swinks."**

Instantly he rushed to the defensive, his own whisper somehow sounding louder than his normal voice. **"Promotion! Good for C-Sec!"** he reminded, pushing back lightly. As foolish as he was, he had only the best intentions in mind. **"Good for morale in Citadel!"**

Saxon resisted the urge to throttle him within an inch of his life, remembering the image that he was trying to preserve. He snuck another look at the woman, examining her features once again. _Jesus_ she was an ugly one, and this was a _Turian_ he was talking about. Perhaps long ago she'd had the workings of beauty. She might've been a heartthrob to her peers for all he knew. Yet with time the scars of battle had done much to deface her. She looked and sounded like a complete mess. Did she have anything else to lose? **"... I don't like the look of her."**

 **"She is homosexual."** Swinks noted out of the blue, seemingly sorry to disappoint. **"No matter. Sexual attraction irrelevant."**

He'd learnt to ignore him when he made comments like that. They were only accurate half the time regardless, not that it mattered. **"Why would she be interested in a ship full of Reapers?"**

 **"Stolen cargo? Credits? Heirlooms?"** the Salarian pondered aloud, employing the reasoning skill his race was famed for. He may've been on the lower half of the spectrum of intelligence, but that didn't mean he was a fool. He had his moments, like everyone else. **"Small ship. Likely Turian. Captured by Reapers. Her own?"**

God knew, and Saxon wasn't exactly on the best of terms with God nowadays. Maybe his edgy atheist years in his boyhood had left a vast rift between them, because all God seemed to do to him now was give him lousy work shifts and bless him with terrible people skills. There were other, more immediate things to fret about however.

This was an opportunity of a life time. This could've been the lucky break that Saxon needed to make nice-nice with Commander Bailey - at last a victory after weeks of defeats and low notes. This could've been the final push he needed to step out of that rickety desk chair and into a nice leather one higher up on the chain of command.

Bailey was the very definition of the Everyman. He'd certainly understand if he twisted a few legs in order to get his own way for the benefit of the majority. It was one of those traits that made him such a respectable boss to have. He'd understand doing something a little bit illegal on the side for the greater good

But regardless, he still needed to cobble a case together. You know in secondary school when you're forced to do those dull science experiments with the Bunsen burners, and you're paired off with a group of tossers who'd rather spend the whole day playing paper football leaving you to do all the work to avoid detention? Picture that magnified tenfold. How was he supposed to muster a group of blokes who'd happily help in raiding a Reaper ship for no apparent reason?

Did C-Sec even _have_ troops?

 _They were security, not soldiers._

Maybe Swinks could help out. Hire some mercenaries, or at best some patriotic idiots raring for front line combat. He had no idea honestly. Saxon and Swinks pulled out from their little huddle, the former resting his hands on the table like a card dealer in his Sunday best. **"... Look, I'll see if I can pull some strings. I'm not guaranteeing anything love."**

 **"Farah Servilia."** she said. The Englishman briefly thought she'd suddenly sneezed, although he quickly realised that she'd just told him her name. She fidgeted on the spot, using the table as support. **"Don't call me love."**

 **"Right then, Farah."** he corrected himself. To be honest he wanted more information before he threw his spuds onto the fire. You could respect that desire, couldn't you? **"What're you planning, specifically?"**

Had she planned that far? She blinked awkwardly; a moment that would've been much less awkward if she'd gotten a bloody pint in the first place, like a normal person. **"Get on board, find what I'm after."** she said non-specifically. She had all the subtlety of a slutty Asari. **"I get what I want, you get your fame. We're all happy."**

How on Earth... Or _Palaven_ or whatever... Did she plan to do this when she only had one leg? She seemed to have enough trouble sitting up straight. He could only fear the sheer mania of her trying to sneak about a ship full of bad guys. Saxon wanted to comment on this, but he decided on holding it back. She knew what he was going to ask, he could tell. **"Alfred Saxon."** he returned her introduction at a rather strange point in the conversation, lacking a fedora to tip. **"If you want updates, go through Swinks here."**

 **"Hello!"** Swinks waved with his usual enthusiasm. Maybe he just enjoyed waving?

 **"We've already met."** Farah pointed out in disinterest, the Salarian having been the person who'd organised this meeting in the first place. Regardless he just kept waving, like an unruly child on an incredibly long shuttle ride. After a full minute of this, she gave a half-assed wave in return. **"... Hi."**

With Swinks satisfied and the deal supposedly made, the Turian strained with effort as she reached for her rifle's grip. For a brief moment Saxon honestly feared that she'd become fed up with the both of them, and planned to try and shoot them both all mafioso style. Thankfully it seemed that wasn't her priority, as she slowly readied the stock under her arm and pulled herself to her feet using her rifle and the seat as leverage. Soon enough she was up on her own one foot, limping away with her makeshift crutch.

 _Hopefully it wasn't loaded._

He couldn't stop himself from asking the question as she hobbled off at a painfully slow speed. We're talking " _old lady in the market waiting line when you're in a hurry_ " speed. **"Any reason why you ain't got prosthetics or anything, Farah?"**

Thankfully she was too engaged with her current predicament to fire anything worse than venomous words in his general direction. **"Any reason why I should?"**

Raising a hand as he often did, Swinks started. **"Well-"**

 **"Rhetorical question, frogger."** Farah was quick to spit, returning to her odyssey.

 **"Frogger?"** Saxon repeated in confusion, not even questioning whether or not that was an actual rhetorical question. Was that some kind of insult? **"** _ **Frogger**_ **? Come on, that isn't even a word!"**

She didn't even give that the common courtesy of a dismissive scoff, simply continuing to limp towards the dance floor. He doubted she was planning to bust any moves; it was the only way to the exit, fire safety be damned. The pair watched on for a bit, yet their fascination quickly died down.

 **"I've got a bad feeling about this."** Saxon sighed once she was out of earshot. Farah just seemed to spell trouble. Well, not literally. Hell, none of the letters in " _Farah_ " even appeared in " _Trouble_ ", but you get the point. **"I hope she isn't expecting much, because she isn't** _ **getting**_ **much."**

 **"Something is enough."** Swinks replied swiftly, almost sounding enlightened providing you disregarded his stupid voice. **"C-Sec gains more than it risks. Expendable numbers."**

Why the hell did he have to say the word " _expendable_ "? All that did was make him feel even more anxious. **"Whatever you say, bloke."** he noted, slipping his hands into his pockets. **"The bossman's gonna** _ **chew**_ **me out for this."**

 **"Commander Bailey?"** Swinks asked, which Saxon clarified with a rather lazy nod. After a brief silence that must've felt like an eternity to a Salarian, he spoke once more. **"Commander Bailey is married. Heterosexual."**

That didn't even deserve a confused expression. Merely shaking his head like a scruffy dog in slow motion, Saxon rubbed at his temples and relaxed for a few moments. This was quite a significant event believe it or not. If he got this right - which he didn't want to do - he'd be off on a ship fighting Reapers and god knows what else. He'd gotten a desk job for the sole purpose of _avoiding_ this bollocks. What would his mum say?

Hanging about for a bit longer, the duo eventually decided to get a move on to their respective duties. The party had neither calmed nor grown over the past hour, the tired having merely swapped places with fresh drunkards. There was a strange degree of organisation when pissed people were made to work together, and it was a wonder to behold. It made collective hive minds look like sheep.

They faced the exact same predicaments making their way back through the breach to the relative safety of the entrance. Alas, when they finally broke free of the humid sweat-stinking crowd they were welcomed by the sight of Farah - who was still slowly shuffling forward with her crutch after all this time. No doubt if she moved any slower she'd be going backwards.

Exchanging a look, the Salarian and the human casually overtook her and went on their merry ways. Farah looked taken aback by such bravado. Making her way through the door after a complex procedure involving the use of her entire body to hold it open, she leant against a nearby wall with daggers in her eyes.

Her face said it all, but she saw fit to say it out loud too. **"** _ **Bastards**_ **."**

X

 _(A/N): Well, that didn't work out quite as well as planned... But then it is a first chapter!_

 _Generally hoping this series to be the sci-fi counterpart to my TES fics, with a similar writing style and all. Just not quite sure if it works yet. We'll have to wait and see, but who knows? :P_

 _Also, is it me or is it impossible to play ME2 again after playing ME3? The gameplay just feels weird D:_

 _This experimental fic will continue, eventually!_


	2. Familiar Faces

**(A/N):** Here comes chapter two, with a bout of writer's block on the side! I've always found coming up with story ideas far much easier and more enjoyable than the actual write ups. It's strange :O

In our last chapter, C-Sec Officer Alfred Saxon and black marketer Ferlorn Swinks had entered a business deal with a mysterious one-legged Turian woman called Farah Servilia. This deal involved a mission to raid a Reaper ship, for reasons unknown to the main duo. What could possibly lie ahead?

Well, I know... But I guess you'll have to read!

 **WARNING:** Spelling errors, OCs, language, backwards attempts at being funny and dramatic at the same time, an inaccurate portrayal of autism, probably a bunch of lore contradictions, pop-culture in the far future, terrible accents and the usual mad bantz

 **Chapter Two: Familiar Faces**

In the end, they'd actually managed to muster a whole five men between them across the Citadel. Sieving through all sorts of zealous militia and hardened spacers, the pair had somehow achieved a perfect balance of cost and performance that would make the government of Earth flush and fume. To be honest and true to himself Saxon was quite pleased with this accomplishment - he'd expected at least five men less.

Four of the five were a squad of Vorcha, likely _Blood Pack_ or some other terribly named mercenary group that sounded more like a teenage alternative rock band than anything else. They'd heeded the call of duty with toothy grins filling their oversized gobs. Vorcha always looked like such a happy species, constantly smiling no matter the odds. It was enough to bring a tear to the pencil pusher's eye.

Their fifth ranger had taken a considerably longer time to find through a sea of fat and grease in _Purgatory_. Thankfully he stood out from a mile away, the chirping of cicadas that nestled within his hairy back announcing his presence. It'd been that bloke from the dance floor that had taken an interest in Saxon's arse as if it contained treasures deep within. Dodging his attempts to cop a feel, he'd popped the question without so much as taking a knee.

He agreed far too willingly for comfort, completely ignoring what little details the informant had to offer.

So that was that. A fellowship consisting of a one-legged sniper, a cockney desk worker, an autistic Salarian, four Vorcha and Big Foot's larger cousin had been formed to take on an unspecific number of synthetic zombie mega warriors with billions of intergalatic genocides under their collective belts. He swore he'd seen a snuff film with a similar premise once, but it wasn't something he'd like to discuss in public.

Saxon felt like he should've been disappointed in himself for not being particularly bothered by the odds he was throwing these strangers against. He felt like he should've been guilty for the inevitable deaths that were to come. Hell, those Vorcha were in their _teens_ when it came to human years once you got down to the nitty-gritty.

But then to hell with it. Why should he feel worried about a bunch of strangers that he'd never interacted with in the past? They were on the payroll. They knew what they were getting into. And besides, he'd never really gotten why people went on about protecting the young and junk like that anyway. If anything older people had more experience and more value, and deserved more defence. They were like a fine wine, only less pleasant to drink or sniff.

It took a great strength of character for Saxon to cross the point of no return, but he'd managed to pull it off. He'd called in to the office sick for the weekend, reluctantly taking his first day off and kissing goodbye to his employee of the month portrait. That was bloody well depressing - now he was one of the normal folk, skipping work all willy nilly. Regardless, it was for the greater good.

In spite of the surge of depression his recent life choices had given him, probably the easiest part was renting out a small transport to ferry the gang to the warzone. Boy, that would be a threatening sight to behold wouldn't it? Eight people crammed into a tiny old banger held together with string and gum. Those Reapers must've been quaking in their non-existent boots.

And so here they were, gracelessly streaming across the stars like a fox turd in a children's playground. Saxon stared out of the plexiglass windscreen... Or spacescreen... With a distinct lack of awe in his eyes. He'd been told that gazing into the stars was one of the most spiritual and character-building experiences one could ever witness a hundred times over in his youth. To him, it was just a big black nothingness with a couple of twinkly bits on it. He'd get the same experience sprinkling glitter on a carpet and taking some LSD laced with red sand.

 **"You know what you're doing, right?"** the South Londoner pressed, sat in the cockpit with his Salarian companion like a young couple bathed in the glow of a TV special. Swinks stabbed at a few buttons with his nose picker, looking very much like a pianist doped on caffeine. Saxon suddenly raised his voice in apparent alarm, **"There, look. That light's blinking."** he warned, **"Is that for show, or are we running out of oxygen, or...?"**

The pilot simply covered the flashing warning light with his palm, completely ignoring it like any normal person would. **"Backseat driving is disrespectful."**

Saxon grit his teeth. **"I'm sorry, it's just..."** he exhaled enthusiastically, squeezing so much air out of his lungs that he started to sound like a deflated whoopie cushion crossed with a coughing chain smoker near the end. **"This shuttle. It's about as tight as my aunt at the end of a new year's party. About as secure as a young person's bank account."**

 **"Interesting."** the Salarian said. It was a comment on the implications of his words, not on the frankly woeful analogies that he was spewing like projectile puke. He assumed that was little more than a coping mechanism in times of stress - the human's equivalent of sucking one's thumb. **"Saxon is afraid of space travel?"**

 **"I'm not afraid of space travel."** he defended himself instantly. He worked _and_ lived on a damned space station. Why would he be afraid of space? It was just an empty, limitless void of nothingness that would kill you within an instant if you so much as took a breath of it in. It was just an ever present threat, kept at bay by nothing more than a few inches of shoddy hull and glass with the integrity of an expensive Parisian lawyer. His rusty co-pilot chair squeaked like a turned on bunny rabbit, zapping him out of his thoughts. **"... I'm afraid of space travel in** _ **this**_ **thing."**

Swinks decided to utilise his extensive knowledge of middle-aged woman medicine, and gave Saxon a cure for his ills: **"Take a walk."** he recommended pleasantly, just needing breadcrumbs to feed some birds with and those weird flared glasses with those beaded strings on to perfect the image. **"Enjoy scenery."**

Take a walk through a rickety space shuttle and take in the scenery of never ending black and dull beige walls? Take a nice lungful of crisp artificial air through age old filters with enough green on their cartridges to make even the most ardent of vegans reconsidering their life choices? **"I'll make sure to avoid the cracks."** he said dismissively, hauling himself to his feet. There were old hull breaches on this shuttle that were being held by _duct tape._ Literal _duct tape._ And here he thought C-Sec was poorly funded. **"Don't want to cause a** _ **draught**_ **."**

Leaving the Salarian to do his thing unimpeded, Saxon squeezed through the shuttle's tight corridors and made his way to the old bitch's chest cavity. He had a sneaky suspicion that it'd been designed with Volus in mind, the permanent lean that he'd been forced to adopt buggering his back to no end.

Eventually he reached the main bay: A long tube with seats lined across the left and right walls, the mercenaries under his wing seated patiently for something to shoot at to drop on by. Whose idea was it to make the seats in these sort of transports face eachother? As if travelling with strangers wasn't awkward enough as it is, the corridors were _just_ tight enough to make adjacent passengers rub their knees together suggestively with every bump.

 _There's only so much nervous chuckling can get you._

The Vorcha were huddled together like tramps around a burning barrel, whispering in their disgusting language about god knows what. They were far too busy to pay him much heed, not that it mattered. They would do their part when the time came, and in all honesty that was what mattered in the grand scheme of things.

In direct contrast the old yeti of a man certainly took heed to him, bring up his hand for a slap as if he'd spotted an incredibly large moth sat conveniently on the cleft of Saxon's arse. Rest assured, it took a tremendous effort to pull off a manly action roll to clear the arc of his palm before it connected to his cheek. This wouldn't be the day, that's for sure.

With the gauntlet cleared with green across the board, the cockney was met with one last obstacle - Farah Servilia, in the flesh. He'd tried to start a conversation with the Turian earlier in the day, but she'd refused to give much of an answer beyond " _yes_ ", " _no_ ", and " _piss off_ " before returning to a bout of brooding. She was a depressing woman to be around, draining the hope and aspirations of nearby entities like a weirdly specialised sponge. She was beginning to remind him of his mother. Certainly _looked_ a lot like her, the ugly harpy.

He stood in front of her for a good few seconds before she graced him with a spare glance. Glaring at him for a moment, she casually returned to tending to her weapon's needs. Saxon's nostrils flared, his arms folding. **"Still wonderin' why you ain't got any prosthetics or anything."** he said. Maybe he needed some lessons in social conduct, because generally that wasn't a good way to try and spark a conversation. **"Would be pretty convenient."**

Farah sighed, stripping out a bolt for the billionth time and turning it between her three fingers. **"Does it really bother you that much?"** Alfred stared at her digits for a few moments, watching her spin the trinket expertly. Now that he thought about it, did everyone that he knew on a first name basis have only three fingers? **"I'm a sniper, Saxon. I don't exactly need to move much. I like to look my enemy in the eye while I kill them, preferable through a scope in an elevate position several hundred yards away."** she rambled. Saxon's head was buried far too deep in philosophical monologue over the number of fingers that aliens seemed to have to really be paying attention. The bolt was suddenly shoved back into place, loudly clicking like a vital bone being realigned. **"Still sounds romantic, doesn't it?"**

He blinked wetly, trying to remember what they were talking about. **"Would be a tad bit easier if you didn't have to hop everywhere."** he noted. She had the speed of a white sprinter in the Olympics back on Earth. **"Cybernetic implants are pretty freakin' awesome anyway. I once knew a bloke who cut off his own right hand for one."**

Farah raised her brow. It would've been her eyebrow, if only she had one. It still conveyed the effect she was after at the very least. **"Why his right hand?"**

 **"He was lonely."** Saxon put plainly.

Letting that hang in the air like a fart at a funeral, Farah - _eventually_ \- clarified her physical disposition. **"... I hate technology. The more we rely on it, the weaker we become."**

Great, a _hippie_. What was wrong with technology, honestly? Everything was technology, to some extent. And besides, it wasn't like it appeared out of thin air. **"What about your gun?"** Alfred pointed out for example.

 **"Except my gun."** she growled, growing increasingly impatient with the white-collar before her. She'd hired him for manpower and nothing else. She didn't want to talk about nonsense.

 _"Except her gun." she said.  
_

 _They called that "Dying a death of a thousand qualifications" in Philosophy class._

The ship's comm buzzed to life, what sounded like a massive and frisky bee filling the background. **"Reaper ship detected. Docked on planetoid. Out of fuel? Will intercept."** Swinks announced, sounding somewhat confused about this sudden development. He'd been expecting an interstellar docking. Landing in gravity was much less fun. **"Recommend preparations."**

Without so much as a peep the Vorcha began to wrestle with their guns, looking like hyperactive kids getting just what they wanted on a Christmas morning. Saxon stared at them dubiously, murmuring to the busy-bodied Turian beside him. **"I still haven't heard a plan."** he noted. **"We just gonna go in all Rambo style? Wreck up the place?"**

 **"Rambo?"** Farah blinked, missing the alien reference as she stretched her arm, rising to her foot with her weapon-cum-crutch once again. She must've had a spine made of out palladium. **"You and the others go in and check out the ship. I'll guard the rear."**

 **"How heroic of you."** Saxon swooned, more out of buffeting than emotion as the ship pierced the stratosphere like a nail through six-inches of concrete. He held on tight, trying to hide his difficulty keeping his footing.

Farah held onto his shoulder for support, lacking the reach or balance to grasp anything else. It would've been pretty romantic, if only it didn't hurt like a right bitch. **"Somebody's gotta keep an eye on your ass, and that hairy guy isn't gonna cut it."** she snarked, patting his back in encouragement. Surprisingly enough ol' _Chewbacca_ on the other end of the galley stared at Alfred's front expectantly, no doubt hoping to disembark behind him to see those thighs flexing. The Turian's voice was loud at such proximity, the surprise of her sudden speech only amplifying the effect.

 **"Get ready."**

With a Turian clinging to his back like an oversized monkey, Saxon began the arduous process of triple checking that everything was in order. His suit was sealed in case the atmosphere tried anything funny, his helmet was strapped on tighter than a baby harness, and his rifle was as weighty and crummy as ever.

He'd used the _Avenger_ once or twice in training, but it'd always been an unruly beast to handle. If you thought hiding an inconvenient erection was a challenge, try keeping the barrel of a standard issue rifle on target. It was bigger than the pistols that he was more adept with. For the most part he'd been trained in the use of peashooters, not the big ordnance and military grade gear. He preferred the children's toys himself.

Popping out the thermal clip and huffing the fumes like a first time druggie, Saxon merely closed his eyes and waited. Save for the rumble of the ship's primitive plate armour, the entire cabin was dead quiet as the shuttle roared towards the surface. This was supposed to be the time where you uttered a few prayers or maybe thought of loved ones, but those were right at the back of the pencil pusher's mind.

All he could think of was the Turian's fingers.

 _There must've been a conspiracy in there somewhere._

 _Some evolutionary link between the lines._

 _Nobel Peace Prize, here he came._

Without warning the transport's door unfurled, the reserved light of the planetoid's surface casting a faint shadow across the dirt before them. They'd landed in record time. Saxon hadn't even realised. **"Landing complete."** Swinks said over the radio, just to clarify for any of the slower passengers on board. Following a chorus of loud shuffles and repeated mutterings of the phrase " _Stupid belt_.", the Salarian exited the cockpit and joined the squadron of anti-heroes.

 **"You know what to do."** the human began an improvised pep-talk, lacking the pips to really pull it off. **"Fan out, scout ahead. Nothing fancy until we know the full picture."** he commanded, staring at the line of blank faces apparently under his command. **"I want updates by the minute. Got it lads?"**

There was no chorus of applause or cheers like in the films. There weren't even jeers. The Vorcha didn't seem particularly bothered by his words, too busy mumbling between eachother indistinctly. Likewise the Neanderthal was too engrossed with staring at the cockney's groin to really spare his ears. Farah folded her arms indignantly, unimpressed by this display.

Saxon felt pretty embarrassed to be honest. Felt somewhat... _Insignificant._

Somebody coughed. It took the C-Sec officer a moment to realise that it was him. **"... Move out?"**

They understood that language at least, hoisting up their weapons and getting a move on in unison. Mercenaries weren't the sort to listen to instructions and advice, preferring to do things in their own tried and true ways. The ways that had gotten them so far in life in the first place. That independence and free way of thinking was a blessing at times, but usually it was a complete and utter curse for the seasoned commander.

 _Which he wasn't at all._

Disembarking the ship, Farah grabbed a tight hold on Saxon's shoulder for the second time that fortnight. **"Find me someplace to shoot from."** she commanded like a feisty mother in law. The Turian raised her rifle into his vision, hoping that images and small words might help aid his understanding. **"I need to be high to get the perfect shot."**

The troops had gone off to do their own thing now, resembling treasure hunters on a beach with those crappy metal detectors. You know, the hand-me-down mine spotters? **"High? I thought the exact opposite."** Saxon joked at her word choice, prompting nothing more than her usual ire. Either she didn't understand what he was getting at, or she did. Regardless it was bad. Saxon suddenly felt pretty hot in his air-conditioned suit. **"... Never mind."**

Browsing through their options with a cocked leg, Alfred Saxon clicked his fingers and pointed at a nearby rock face. Acknowledging that as a good place to get started, he and Swinks began the slow and arduous process of helping a one-legged woman scale a steep incline. It was a lengthy trip, to put it simply. It was the most tedious and mind-numbing series of events outside the summer holidays, to put it more complexly.

 **"Clear."** the poor excuse of an orang-utan said over the cackle of the radio, before returning to his sweep.

 **"This will do."** Swinks rubbed his hands together like a shifty goods peddler, at last summiting the mesa with only a few raw scars to show for it. It was a flat piece of ground for the most part, with enough light cover to settle down for an extensive period. The trio looked ahead from their elevated position, at last spotting what they had came here for in the full.

It was pretty damn big in reality. You never really get the sense of scale in space when looking at smaller freighters swimming around stations and frigates, but even a small snubfighter could be as big as a group of flats. Or an apartment complex, if you preferred that term.

This was one of those bulky Turian corvettes. The space equivalent of a fancy yacht with a maple finish. It may've been " _small_ " in space terms, but you could easily house a good two-hundred people in it and still have enough room for the occasional house party.

 _No patio barbeques though._

'twas quite the wonder to behold. Saxon's eyes almost seemed to glaze over as he stared at the monument to Turian labour, only to vaguely agree with the Salarian's choice moments later. **"Yeah, yeah."** he sputtered, letting Farah find her own legs... Leg... Footing. **"Hunker down here."**

After a few unsteady moments teetering like a circus performer on a tight rope, the maimed sniper suddenly flopped onto her stomach and began to roll for her rifle. He briefly thought that she was either having some sort of epileptic fit or embracing her inner fish, but he was quick to realise what was going on. Lord knew how soldiers could dive to the ground like that without getting winded. **"Good angle over the door. Wind's not too bad."** she narrated like an epicure, tweaking one of the entirely unnecessary knobs on the scope of her gun. **"Nice choice."**

 **"Clear."** the horny grizzly bear updated on comms, clicking off without another word.

Swinks fixed an imaginary tie, looking rather smug and proud for her commendation. Saxon found himself wondering if he chose this spot out of a greater tactical reasoning than he was letting on. He was supposedly ex-STG after all. They'd know about these sort of things, being the shifty assassin and secret agent sorts. Either that or he'd been playing more of those weird Grim Terminus Alliance games again and committed a few tricks to memory. Regardless, you could colour him impressed.

That was green or something like that if memory served.

 **"So you'll be our rear guard then?"** Saxon questioned Farah.

 **"That's a big ass to cover, but I'll do what I can."** the Turian shrugged idly, refusing to turn and face him.

Taking this comment to heart, Swinks curiously tried to sneak a brief peek at the human's increasingly infamous derriere. Saxon hurried a few steps backwards self-consciously, standing at ease like a Cub Scout when the flag came down. **"Why the hell does everyone keep talkin' about my arse? Aren't there** _ **bigger**_ **topics?"**

His protest was strangely ignored but his compatriots, with Farah too busy scoping out the area and Swinks becoming conveniently quiet at that exact moment. Saxon had no choice but to drop the question, mainly to cure the awkwardness in the air.

 **"So what, if we get in trouble and need to pull a tactical retreat or somethin' you'll be there to pick up the pieces?"** he inferred analytically. The sniper didn't say yes per se, but she _did_ make a couple of grunting sounds that roughly resembled an acknowledgement. With that she returned to complete and utter silence, entering a sniper's state of zen as it were.

The Englishman saw that as a good time to leave her on her own before her groans evolved into primeval mating calls and she started chanting about snu snu and fundamentals. With the black marketer in tow, he began to descend the path with his rifle swinging between his fingers like a jaunty umbrella.

 **"Clear."** the obese chupacabra communicated, signing off as soon as the last syllable left his tongue.

 **"Suggest beginning entry."** Swinks recommended, staring across the horizon at the behemoth of a silhouette. Were eight men enough? Would _twenty_ be enough? **"Reapers not yet aware. May be in time."** he warned urgently. **"Time is of the essence."**

Saxon nodded in agreement, shifting into a slightly less childish grip and holding his weapon like an actual bloody trooper. **"Got it bloke."** he said, squeezing his rifle tightly. He half expected it to break up into a thousand fragments like in a shoddy comic book. The " _Deano_ " or the " _Bandy_ ", them sorts. **"You ready?"**

A gun cocked all dramatically as Swinks tended to his pistol - one of those badass _Paladin_ deals that only rich people and mafiosos tended to get their hands on. For starters Saxon didn't even know where the hell he pulled that little gadget from, and his skintight bodysuit didn't have any apparent pockets. He was sceptical about something else, but he was too busy shuddering at the thought of the Salarian's natural storage space to remember it.

With that out the way their descent continued in relative silence. It felt surprisingly longer now that they weren't actively trying to drag a person up with them. There was nothing to achieve at the moment, so it just seemed slower. Eventually Saxon couldn't help but try and spark a conversation - anything to keep his mind at ease. **"Worked out what she's after yet?"**

 **"Uncertain."** Swinks disappointed him, which he expected to be brutally honest. He pointed his middle digit at the ship - a gesture that wasn't rude in the absence of two fingers. **"Reaper ship is Turian. Previous theories a possibility."** he reflected out loud, before letting his shoulders sag goofily. **"... Or not. Do not know."**

That was a shame. The fact that Farah was hanging so far back only seemed to raise more questions. If she wanted something on the ship, why in Christ's name was she camping out without marshmellows to roast miles away? Hell, she was so far away that she'd have to _mail_ bullets to people. Saxon snickered dryly, **"You've got the clarity of a horny dog at a Miss Lovely Legs competition."**

The Salarian didn't get what that meant. Part of him wondered if the cockney purposefully said things like that knowing full well that he wouldn't understand. But then Saxon wasn't that juvenile, was he? **"Recommend regrouping with mercenaries."** he advised. Reapers were all about the staple swarming tactic, colloquially known as the " _Hollywood Charge_ " manoeuvre in certain strategic circles. They'd want to stand as one, like a Spartan phalanx against a million Persians. **"Stick together."**

 **"Well that's a given."** the clerical worker quickly retorted, tapping at his radio. In the chaos of battle even the most basic of tactics can be quickly forgotten. There was a reason why drill sergeants constantly repeated the basics time and time again. The radio cackled with static, but no lusty voice came out from the other side. Saxon bit his lip, glancing at his companion. **"... They've been awfully quiet."**

 **"Is it on?"** Swinks asked.

 **"Is it on?"** Saxon repeated, quickly realising what he'd just been asked. **"Of _course_ it's freakin' on, you muppet."** he snarled, shaking his head in disgust. After a brief and incredibly comedic pause, he couldn't resist checking anyway. He could just catch the Salarian in the corner of his eyes with that stupid grin of his as he fiddled with the daft contraption. After flicking the switch back and forth like a shuttlecock over the net, there was little improvement. **"That ain't good."**

 **"That is certainly not good."** Swinks clenched the grip of his gun, scanning over the ship's landing zone. He couldn't see anyone. That smile he'd had was quickly starting to turn around. **"It is bad, in fact."**

Saxon cocked his rifle, checking that the clip was fresh for action before gesturing to his mate to fall in. **"On me."**

The two found themselves moving on like professionals, all crouched over and darting from cover to cover methodically. Slowly but surely they advanced, keeping eachother covered like some sort of peculiar ritualistic dance. Their pace was beyond sluggish. It was almost as if they were trying to deliberately delay the inevitable as they ducked and dived, like the last presentation on Science Project Day. Like a small part of them desperately hoped that they'd receive a message at some point saying that the mercenaries had merely dropped their radios down a toilet or something, and that everything was fine. Tickety boo.

Soon enough they ran short of convenient waist high cover, the path spilling out into the vast clearing where the Turian corvette sat like a nestled swan. Its door was wide open, drooping out like a dragon's tongue blowing a silent raspberry in mockery.

 _Into the Maw they go._

Gradually the pair stepped out of their cover, cautiously advancing with uncertainty in their gait and their weapons at the ready. Saxon wasn't quite sure what was scarier; the mystery that lie ahead of them, or the fact that a gun-toting alien with a rifle whose barrel rivalled Pinocchio's nose in length had a clear view of the back of his head - and his arse - through a magnified scope. Both of those things tended to make you rather self conscious.

Stepping onto the ramp the duo shuffled further and further ahead, shoulder to shoulder to the bitter end. The inside of the ship's bay was bathed in darkness, and while that gave it a solid A+ in terms of atmosphere it was a _tad_ bit inconvenient for the two explorers. Swinks tilted his head ever so slightly, his massive black eyes trying to pierce the night and gather intel.

Suddenly a shape moved from the shadows, an unknown object flopping out from the cabin and draping out from the door. Saxon struggled to keep his trigger finger disciplined, his eyes adjusting to take in what dangled before him.

It was an arm.

A Vorcha's arm.

Swallowing down the small family of frogs in his throat, Saxon nervously advanced with the ever helpful Swinks keeping his pistol trained on the shadows. If he was thinking clearly this would've seemed like the perfect bait for a trap, but at the moment his thumping pulse was deafening his mind's ear. Yes, that was an actual term.

Together they popped their heads through the door like whac-a-moles, following the trail of the alien limb to find its source. It didn't take long until they found it. Five hollowed-out corpses, their faces twisted into various states of horror and anguish, lay together in a friendly circle like a group of teenage girls at a slumber party. The desecrated bodies consisted of four Vorcha and what at first appeared to be a pregnant shaggy dog, but upon further inspection turned out to be a human.

They'd found the mercenaries at least.

 **"Gotta admit."** Saxon started bitterly, his own voice causing him to jump. **"I kinda saw that one comin'."**

The pair exchanged a nervous glance, before continuing to stare at the macabre formation with sickening fascination in their eyes. Each and every one had a hole the size of Saxon's arse going through its stomach, cutting a smooth and clean passage from one side to the other and leaving its contents all spilled out on the galley floor. This must've been some sort of alternative weight loss technique. He should've recommended it to his mother, the fat cow.

 **"Reaper's doing."** Swinks concluded, as if that wasn't obvious. With visible effort he tore his stare from the horrors before them, his eyes adjusting to the corvette's bay. There were no visible signs of conflict, nor enemy presence. **"... Reaper location unknown."**

The human rubbed his visor, shaking his head in fear. **"Don't say** _ **that**_ **."** he fumed, flexing his tense shoulders. Believe it or not, it generally isn't a comfort when you have no idea where a species designed purely with killing you in mind actually is. **"Jesus Christ, don't say** _ **that**_ **."**

 **"We must leave."** the Salarian ordered, continuing to scan the area. **"Now."**

 **"Agreed."** the C-Sec officer nodded furiously, the gay ogre's bloodshot and bulging eyes staring right through him. Swinks joined his colleague, the gore and viscera churning whatever passed for a gut in Sur'Kesh. **"... We aren't moving."** Saxon eventually pointed out, his legs feeling like they were encompassed in granite. **"Why aren't we moving?"**

After an incredibly confidence-brewing few moments, Swinks said the following. **"... We are scared, Saxon."**

 **"** _ **Really**_ **? Wow."** the cockney snarled at this analysis. Never before had he bore witness to such analytical acumen. **"Just.** _ **Wow**_ **."** He could practically feel his loins stirring with heat, begging for the personification of perfect reasoning before him to bear his children. What he'd give to ram it up his butt. His _fist_ , up the thick bastards scrawny little _arse_! **"Fan-** _ **freakin'**_ **-tastic."**

Thankfully something managed to get the lead out of their boots, as a blood curdling scream that made stepping on Lego sound like a massage rung through the corvette and echoed a good three to four times for added percussion. Saxon visibly began to tremble, his chest rising and falling as he took frequent and anxious breaths. As if he was the only source of reason left on the ship - which may've actually been true - the more collected Swinks rested a hand on the desk worker's back to grab his attention. He had one piece of advice for his friend. **"** _ **Hide**_ **."**

 _You know it's a bad sign when the autist is the brains._

Spinning around to meet him, the desperate human obeyed without question. Like the cry had been a starting pistol at one of those crappy primary school Sports Days that parents dreaded going to, the pair darted out down the ship's loading ramp and swerved at its base.

Oh yeah.

They were in the middle of a vast plain with next to no cover.

With nothing but initiative to go on, Swinks clutched onto Saxon's wrist and pulled him behind the ramp. The duo huddled up tightly in the small gap under the ship's entrance. It must've looked incredibly manly to passing observers, that's for sure. Before they had a chance to realise just how bad this hiding space was, and before they had a moment to at least buy eachother dinner, they heard it.

Slowly and deliberately, heavy footsteps began to thud down the walkway with varied frequency. There could be as little as two seconds to as great as twelve between each step, as whatever the hulking individual above was moved onwards. It sounded like a drunken man stomping down the stairs unsteadily, teetering to and fro with uncertain weight.

The sound of foot on metal eventually evolved into foot on soil, as the entity dismounted the ramp and began to pace across the path. Throwing caution to the wind Saxon nervously crooned around his hiding place, taking a peek like that strange old man that used to hang about near his window at night when he was eight.

He saw a large pair of hips saucily swaying left and right, like a opera house diva strutting down the red carpet. For all those people that were commenting on his arse prior, _this_ was the real deal. The sex appeal was lost however when he realised just what he was looking at, his eyes travelling further and further upwards. This spindly creature must've been eight feet tall, its ghastly thin frame betraying a vast array of power.

It was an Asari, but Reaper-fied. What the council and Alliance had taken to calling a " _Banshee_ ". The soulless monster came to a halt, its legs crossing mid-stride like it was supposed to be wearing one of those slinky black dresses with a bit of thigh showing.

And then it screamed again, howling at the air like a wolf to the moon.

 _The Banshee._

 _Jeez, wonder how it got that name?_

Juggling responsibilities in such a tight situation - both figuratively and literally - Swinks too poked his head out from cover and shot a glance at the hilltop where Farah had set up not too long ago. Twinkling up high like a diamond in the sky, he could roughly tell her location from the glimmer of her sniper scope. She had a clear shot straight at the doorway, where the Reaper stood almost expectantly like a prostitute at a lamp post.

The Turian needed to take a shot, preferably within the next minute. She was their only hope if they had any chance of escaping with their lunches still in their stomachs.

Still the Banshee just stood there, beginning to resemble that odd old lady that sits at a bus stop even though it's clearly closed. She swayed from side to side, not moving an inch from where her feet stood. What, was she intoxicated? The thick abomination was the perfect target. Swinks could've shot it from Farah's distance with a pistol for crying out loud, _without any ammo_. What on Palaven was she up to?

Way up in an elevated position with nothing to worry about but the occasional gust of wind, Farah Servilia stared down her scope like she had done so many times before in her accomplished career. Her eye squinted intensely, focusing on the beast's face - crossed with two black lines by her sights. X indeed marked the spot.

All she needed to do was pull the trigger, and there and then the deed would be done. The bitch's head would fly clean off like a football across a field, rolling away to rot in some ditch in the middle of nowhere. The Reaper's fate, at long last, was in her hands. One twitch of her finger could seal the deal.

The cross suddenly came out of alignment, the scope swaying from side to side as her rifle began to shake within unsteady hands. The Turian could hear a faint, indistinguishable noise through the fog of her focus, yet eventually she came to realise that it was _her._ She was _whimpering._

Why the hell was she _whimpering_? What, she couldn't stand a little bit of blood? Did the mean monster scare her? Bollocks to that. This thing was a heartless, empty beast hiding within a poor person's shell. She would be doing it a favour by putting it out of its misery, ending the Banshee's cries once and for all.

Farah wrestled for control, clutching onto her weapon roughly and tightening her focus on the target. Remember what they taught you. Forget about everything. Forget about all your worries, all the world around you. Just focus on yourself, and the target before you.

Once that's settled, fire.

It was that simple.

Emaciated and sickening, the grey-skinned mutant hobbled from side to side as if every waking moment was nothing more than abject agony. As if every single spot of its patchy suit of skin was raw with exertion and rot, and the floor was but ash and cinders. Its face was contorted into a constant expression of disdain, its teeth grit in fury and disgust. Its legs reached for metres, its bare and swollen feet a frightful contrast to the talons that were once its fingers.

Everything it stood for was an abhorrence to what the Asari represented. Its cracked flesh, its sickly limbs, its soulless eyes, its withered breasts.

 _Her cute button nose._

Out of instinct she squeezed the trigger, her heart bouncing throughout her chest with terror. The shot went wide by a mile, ricocheting off the corvette's reflective hull and bounding off a few stones before ending up lodged in some muddy debris. The Banshee turned to the source of the noise, at last stirred from her reverie at the arrival of a new contender. Screeching as if it were some twisted war cry, her elongated legs began to carry her once more towards Farah's general location. Her pace was fast and steady, long strides making up for her graceful gait.

Without pause Alfred Saxon swung out from hiding and trained his _Avenger_ on the Banshee's lower back. He fired a couple of bursts at it, squeezing a volley or two of slugs into its pasty flesh. That would've been enough fire to put even the biggest Krogan flat on its arse, but she took it like a chief. The C-Sec officer, lowered his weapon ever so slightly, swapping the weight on his feet nervously. He wasn't quite sure why he thought that would work, but it felt like a good idea at the time.

Distracted once more like a kid going through an IKEA catalogue, the Reaper turned to face the more immediate threat at hand. It stared right into Saxon's eyes, filling him with all sorts of conflicting emotions. Horror and fear were on top of the list, but that didn't pardon a peculiar sense of wonder at this unnatural being before him. Of _fascination._ _This_ was what the galaxy was up against. _This_ would be its undoing.

This was how it would end.

Mentally rolling his eyes, Swinks leapt from cover and tugged at his friend's shoulders once again. **"We must go."** he said with a voice raised in foreign urgency, keeping his eyes fixed on the steadily advancing Banshee. With the paralysed Saxon in tow, he cautiously backed up onto the corvette's ramp and backpedalled into the darkness.

Saxon could feel himself being shaken as he stumbled back into the Reaper ship, the Banshee in a luke-warm pursuit. Swinks was telling him something, but it took quite some time for him to discern what was being said. Burning away at his frozen limbs, he shook himself back to his senses as the ship bathed them both in black.

 **"Saxon, we must** _ **go**_ **!"**

X

(A/N): _Eh..._

 _Well, this was a... Sub par chapter to say the least. It's weird, I actually don't know what to write in this A/N at the moment. That's a first :O_

 _Regardless, join us next time in the frightful conclusion of this fic! How can Saxon and Swinks deal with this Banshee, now cornered by it in an unexplored ship? And what the hell was going on in Farah's head? Find out next time!_


	3. Repentance

**(A/N):** Here comes the final chapter, slightly delayed due to the monotony of preparing for uni!

Last time, eight mercenaries landed on a seemingly uninhabited planetoid to investigate a docked Reaper ship they were after. However, after a series of unclear events a sizable chunk of the gang was killed in a gruesome manner off screen that conveniently left only the main cast as survivors.

The cause of their demise quickly made itself known as a Banshee wandered into the fray, and after Farah - filled with some surge of emotion - missed possibly the easiest headshot this side of Call of Duty auto aim or Killing Floor 1's Doom Map, Saxon and Swinks were left with no other choice but to run for cover from the Reaper-fied monstrosity...

... And now they're kind of cornered!

 **WARNING:** Spelling errors, OCs, language, backwards attempts at being funny and dramatic at the same time, an inaccurate portrayal of autism, probably a bunch of lore contradictions, pop-culture in the future, terrible accents, changing the describing word of a Banshee from "her" to "it" constantly because it's really hard to constantly fit the word "it" into a sentence... You get the picture.

 **Chapter Three: Repentance**

When he was five years old, Alfred Saxon was a right whinger. He was that little kid on the bus who'd be perfectly content for hours on end, only to suddenly burst into a chorus of snotty tears that would last until the end of time. He was that boy at the shop who'd be rolling about on the aisle floor about action figures or some shite while his father nervously stood nearby, hoping that no one accused him of being a rampant sex offender on the loose.

So you know when your no-nonsense mother, the trials of child birth having diluted all sense of subtlety in her blood, grabbed you by the scruff of your collar and dragged you kicking and screaming to the car for your own good? You know how much you hated her for that at the time, even though in reflection she was doing you one hell of a bloody favour?

 _That was the situation right now._

Bumbling forward like male prostitute with a sore bum after his first night, the collected Salarian Ferlorn Swinks continued to haul his terrified colleague forward like a sack of potatoes. They'd taken three lefts and five rights within the last two minutes, losing their pursuer - for the moment - in the intestines of the Turian Corvette.

Finding yet another conveniently spacious loading bay filled with plenty of spots to set up a nifty looking set piece, Swinks at last plopped his friend against a container and scanned the room with urgency in his eyes. Saxon watched on helplessly, his helmet preventing him from kneading his tense brow.

 **"No sign of battle."** Swinks noted as he examined the area, reflecting on not only their current whereabouts but also the state of the bay in which they'd found the juicy bits of their hirelings. **"Mercenaries likely ambushed. Unaware of Banshee's existence."** he inferred. They were slaughtered so quickly that they didn't even fire a shot - all _five_ of them. As if foregoing that information, the alien clapped his hands like a flatulent baby. **"We have the advantage."**

Saxon didn't respond, not sharing quite the same amount of enthusiasm as his chum. His shoulders sagged like the underarm flaps of an old lady, his cranium ringing with the sort of pain you usually felt during the middle part of a dull university lecture when the bell rang.

 **"Additional."** Swinks added additionally, noticing the general grimness in the room. **"Lack of gunfire suggests that Banshee is the sole inhabitant of ship."** he stressed, like a veteran teacher trying to subtly give the answer to the thick student when the inspectors were around. Just like in that shoddy analogy, it didn't work. At all. **"We have initiative."**

 **"You tellin' me a single one of those** _ **things**_ **took over this entire ship?"** Saxon asked, clutching onto his rifle tensely. He'd been led to believe that all the Reapers did was send hordes of clumsy zombies running at you like they were evacuating a poorly acted cinema performance. Now all of a sudden they had super mega death thingiemajiggers? Towering biotic warriors with the sort of long and slender legs that only a healthy diet of malnourishment and human innards could get you? **"That skank** **is the only Reaper on board?"**

There weren't many other words to reply with, so Swinks went for the simplest response. He nodded quickly. **"Correct."**

 **"Bugger me silly."** the desk worker said, leaning back against the wall. It was probably cold, but all he could feel through his suit was that it was about as comfortable as revealing your sexual preferences in the middle of a Catholic dinner. A _Banshee._ He knew of them, but not in explicit detail. They were the Off-Side rule of the Reapers, as it were. Everyone knew of it, but not _about_ it. **"... Just what is that thing bloke?"**

He began to quote from his mental encyclopaedia as he rummaged through the bay's containers, no doubt looking for a maguffin that could cure all their ills. **"Asari, once. Ardakt-Yakshi."** he pronounced in a way only an alien could pull off. **"Possess enhanced biotic capabilities, including rapid biotic jumping and high powered rending."**

Of course he knew what the Ardakt-Yakshi were. The Citadel's porno stores sold a wide arrange of data discs, and it seemed the whole " _femdom Asari that slowly kills you by shagging you_ " thing was a pretty popular fetish around the Aethon Cluster for some bizarre reason. Suddenly the slogan " _our tapes are to die for_ " made a hell of a lot more sense. **"Trapped in a derelict ship with a giant, naked Asari."** Saxon grumbled, crossing his legs for some unannounced reason. **"I thought I'd** _ **like**_ **a day like this. This is great."**

Swinks raised a finger as he worked, maintaining his search. **"This is not great. Not at all."**

The pair shared a reserved smirk, doing their best to give the air a whiff of optimism and positivity. The pencil pusher could tell that his Salarian colleague was simply trying to calm him down, and it was surprisingly working its magic. He could feel the power of sarcasm and apathy flooding back into his foggy mind like a lighthouse amidst the thrashing sea. It felt pretty freakin' pure.

It was good to know that regardless of the stakes or their height, he was dealing with the same Swinks as usual.

Saxon pressed the butt of his rifle against the bay's lovely panelled floor, pulling himself to his feet. He should've gotten something similar for his room. **"So what's the plan?"** he exhaled, giving his weapon a once-over. **"Stand and fight? Give'em an Alamo, or a Rorke's Drift?"**

He was graced with a nod as the merchant span to face him. **"Catch it in crossfire."** Swinks dusted his hands like he'd just taken out the trash, reaching for the pistol strapped higgledy piggledy to his waist. **"Potential to defeat."**

There was a gorgeous chorus of guns cocking that made the testosterone level in the pair skyrocket. All of a sudden Saxon wanted to watch football at a pub with the boys, drowning himself in hooch and throwing abuse at women. So the plan was to shoot the Reaper up all gang-land style? That didn't sound too impressive. **"Yeah, and what if that just pisses it off?"**

 **"Then run."** Swinks said.

Wasn't like he'd come up with anything better. He slapped the Salarian's shoulder jovially, **"Good to have you on board. You're like a box of tissues in a middle aged woman's purse."**

With that awkward analogy up in the air like a university student's dumb hat, the pair began to set themselves up in strategic locations behind the bay's helpful arrangement of goods. It'd be safe to assume that the crates and containers they huddled behind were laden with volatile goods - weaponry, ordnance, explosives, fuel. You'd think that it'd give them second thoughts, but to hell with that.

They hid on their own sides of the bay, leaving a large avenue between them for the monstrosity to strut down. They'd rolled out the red carpet for her - she'd better attend if she didn't want people blogging about her absence on social media for weeks on end.

There was silence, save for that paranoia inducing sound of the corvette's hulking hull settling. They often say that the calm before the storm is the hardest part of battle, but that was a saying that Saxon had long found to be absolute bollocks. Generally the fight was the difficult part. You know, the part where you can actually die?

 **"Saxon."** a voice suddenly pierced the void, dripping with enough sincerity to make your bladder nervous.

 **"Swinks."** Saxon responded to the voice, recognising its pitch and tone.

After a few seconds, the Salarian spoke with a peculiar wetness to his tongue. **"If we die."** he swallowed, gently knocking his malformed head against his cover. **"Then I am sorry."** he sighed with a painful dosage of guilt. **"... You are my first human friend. My longest friend. My greatest friend. My** _ **favourite**_ **friend."**

He scoffed so loudly he could feel his forefathers shedding tears of respect from the heavens, from Agincourt all the way to Waterloo. **"None of that Star Trek crap bloke."** he mocked, racking his gun for the umpteenth time. They weren't gonna get mopey about this. He'd had his moment earlier, and he wasn't best pleased with himself. No crying or emotions or character development until it was all over, and they were out in one piece. Capiche? **"I'm a Janeway man, not a Picard. Phasers set to** _ **kill**_ **."**

Taking the ensuing silence as content, they continued to wait out like they were in the line to a gaming convention. The lights were dim and the hours were hard. You'd be surprised what a man could sleep on when the adrenaline cools and the fatigue steps in. Saxon fidgeted clumsily, the eagerness from before dwindling like a fading candle.

But then it came.

It didn't creep. It didn't sneak. It made the Alliance look like masters at stealth and espionage as it waltzed on in like it owned the ship, which at this point it technically did in retrospect. His limbs tightening with strength and fear, Saxon stumbled into a crouch and readied himself for combat. He could only hope that Swinks hadn't shared his urge for a snooze.

The Banshee didn't scream at first, stepping down the aisle without a groom to take its hand. It simply stood there in waiting, taking deep and struggled breaths through its oversized gob. Soulless black portals gazed out into nothingness, its teeth born in either a grin of arrogance or a grimace of agony.

Surely she knew they were here? The C-Sec officer sneaked a peek through a gap between two cargo containers, catching an appetising glimpse at her bloated bubble butt. Her clawed hands ran along her waist in an erotic fashion, accentuating her bony frame and gut wrenching flesh. Something told him that the tart hadn't checked a mirror or chick mag recently. The whole grey-flesh thing was _so_ last year.

Its head snapped around and her empty sockets stared right at him. Saxon darted away, cursing to himself under his breath. That chilling visage of hers still gave him the damned shivers.

 _She knew._

The wrinkly tart knew exactly where the pair were hiding. It was toying with them, leaving them to wait forever and go mad with fear.

The _nerve_!

Eventually they'd break, their anxieties snapping at the seams and throwing them off kilter. And then she could really have her fun.

Saxon was piss poor at mind games. You know that one about there being no grey elephants in Denmark? He fell for it every single freakin' time back in primary school. He fell for it at family dinners with his six year old niece for crying out loud. With that in mind, take the appropriateness of his response with a pinch of salt.

 **"Alright sweet cheeks, come 'ere!"** he screeched shrilly, swinging out of cover and using the momentum to line up his sights. As if needing someone else to act before him, Swinks pulled the exact same manoeuvre and trained his pistol on the behemoth's skull. The human's trigger finger twitched, raring to go. **"Open wide!"**

A volley of shots rattled through the ship as the two unloaded their arsenal, a constant stream of bullets hammering against the Reaper's body like sleet and hail for a full ten seconds. She jittered and shuddered back and forth as each shot landed, riddling her with just enough lead to get her a prescription on the NHS.

It was looking pretty damn good, the pair swiftly making to load fresh clips into their weapons.

 _But then the smoke cleared._

 _The ooga booga bitch was still standing._

She was so thin and withered that beauty models would feel like fat cows in her presence. How in the name of all that was _sacred_ could she take so much punishment? She was taking more abuse than a celebrity guest on a prime time talk show. Appropriately worried by this turn of events, Saxon struggled to slam his next magazine in cleanly. **"What the hell is she made of, stale bread?"**

 **"Come!"** Swinks summoned, having managed to make a break for the door through the whole commotion. Locked and loaded he kept his weapon arm raised, continuing to squeeze more and more rounds at the Banshee. It was hard enough maintaining suppression and trying to keep the damned thing stationary. Try doing it with a pistol. A pistol with _seven_ rounds a clip. **"Follow!"**

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, Saxon took the only path open to him and slid over the top of the crates like a car bonnet in an action flick. There was only one way to the entrance, to Swinks, and survival. And that was right past the hulking abomination. At arm's length, at the very least.

He sprinted like his life depended on it, because believe it or not it kind of did at this moment of time. It made no effort to lunge at him, merely keeping its eyes fixed on the tiny human that scrambled at its feet like a pissy little rat.

Saxon dodged its unsettling stare like it was his high school crush in the corridor to maths class. It must've been some of that Ardakt-Yakshi power that had left him dazed not too long ago.

Not this time.

He may've liked MILFs, but that was taking it too far.

Making it through the first trial, Saxon arrived by the Salarian's side. **"Straight forward!"** Swinks continued to direct, yanking a grenade from Saxon's belt - which he didn't even know was there - and lobbing it at the beast. The white collar sprinted ahead, his companion continuing to fire whilst backpedalling in pursuit. **"Right behind you!"**

The explosive's detonation was the starting pistol at this very macabre Sports Day line-up. Suddenly every step had become a conscious thought, as Alfred Saxon desperately tried to avoid tripping over his own feet and making a right fool of himself. His rifle swung haphazardly between his fingers like a rotary blade, becoming a significant safety risk for any passing pedestrians.

Gunshots continued to ring out close to him, letting him know that Swinks was still hot on his trail at all times. That was a blessing - looking back at this speed would probably give him a mean case of whiplash. There was a brief pause as the black marketer slid another round of bullets into place, before the racket continued to echo throughout the abandoned corvette.

Reaching the ship's loading bay, the light of the outside world casting long shadows across the room, Saxon slipped. His heel skidded across some misplaced gore like a banana skin, sending him cart wheeling forward flat onto his front and giving him an mouth-watering face full of dead person. He reeled in horror, the petrified expression of the perverted monkey staring straight through him.

He sat bolt up on the carcass, trying to regain his composure. He bet that the fat bastard _always_ wanted him to sit on his lap. A pity he only got it when he was dead.

 _He was covered in his sticky stuff._

 _His red sticky stuff, mind._

A hand grabbed hold of his arm once again, as Swinks maintained his frightful speed. **"Down!"** he shouted, practically throwing the human ahead like a cricket ball. A biotic force launched by the Banshee steamed by over head, slamming into one of the ship's many bulkheads and leaving behind nothing but rust and char.

Handling him like a sock puppet, the ex-STG agent kept moving down the ramp with his friend in tow. He was strangely understanding of how to handle this situation. His expression almost looked amused; engaged by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. This was a once in a lifetime moment, and he was enjoying it to its fullest.

As the terrain under foot shifted into grass, Saxon shot a glance back at the corvette - and their relentless pursuer, still hot on their heels. **"It ain't lettin' up!"** he announced, as if this was breaking news. **"It'll catch up any moment!"**

Taking that as a challenge, Swinks skidded to a stop and twirled around to face the music. He raised his arm, the peculiar shape of an omni-tool forming across his palm and dying it an artificial orange colour. That smug grin grew across his lips, and for once Saxon was glad for it. It meant that the Salarian knew exactly what he was doing. He uttered a one liner to end all one liners, putting Commander Shepard himself in his place.

 **"Let it try."**

He held out his hand like a lollipop man on a motorway, launching a biotic force straight at the corvette. Spiralling onwards with grace, the peculiar energy slammed against the ship's loading ramp and crunched it like an iron fist. After a few moments of tension it was violently pulled upwards under a shower of dirt and sparks, jamming it closed.

With that sorted, the bemused Swinks tickled at an imaginary beard in thought. **"Simple. Grade B hull plating, will withstand Banshee attacks."** he said, glancing at his friend as if to dare him to question the beauty of his improv. Spinning on his heel he strode off with a jaunty step. **"To the ship?"**

Saxon continued to stare at the makeshift barricade as the Salarian walked off, shaking his head in amusement. **"You ballsy, wreckless, magnificent** _ **bastard**_ **Swinks."** he exhaled, the Banshee's muffled screams and strenuous attempts to break free sweet music to his ears.

A claw, and the arm attached to it, burst straight through the hull not long after, flailing about frantically at the wrist. The pencil pusher found himself stepping backwards autonomously, and eventually decided to do himself a favour and broke out into a panicked run.

By the time he'd returned to the shuttle, Swinks was already back in the cockpit stabbing at buttons with all six of his fingers. That was that then. They'd just prep for dust off and be out of here before the Reaper even realised. Simple stuff, just how he liked it.

They could go back to the Citadel, share a few booze, and maybe try some of that new caviar junk at _Purgatory_. Apparently this time they were using eggs found from sludge in Tuchanka, which sounded fun. Certainly sounded better than having a hole through your gut. That tended to make buying new shirts a problem.

His knees weak and his arms heavy, Saxon flopped onto his copilot seat and exhaled loudly. The engines hacked and sputtered like a lifelong smoker before finding their tune and whirring into action. It was a grating sound, yet he couldn't help but enjoy it. Some sense of normalcy at last.

The Salarian paused mid poke, as if he was in the middle of a very badly timed game of Musical Statues. His lips began to knit the beginnings of a few words, before pushing them out in some semblance of coherence. **"... Are we forgetting something?"**

Saxon's eyes shot open. No one had thrown abuse at him for the past hour, had they?

 **"Cock,** _ **Farah!"**_ he spat urgently, leaping out of his chair like it was covered in crisp crumbs. **"We forgot Farah! How the** _ **hell**_ **did we forget Farah?!"**

Swinks urgently returned to authority mode, yet somehow maintained his mysterious calm **. "Get Turian. Hull will hold. Take your ti-"** there was a hideous sound of whining metal that sent shivers down the pair's spine, as the Banshee's claws punctured the hull of the Turian corvette and began to slowly peel it down like a sardine can.

The two had a lovely view of this from the plexiglass window. It would be safe to say that their bowels would be jobless for a full week once this whole ordeal was over. Saxon fixed the Salarian with a bitter glare, the fool's words having jinxed it. Swinks' smile looked a lot more wobbly than usual.

 **"... Go on foot. Will pick up."**

Stumbling as much as he was grumbling, Saxon snatched up his weapon and barged forward through the lifeless ship. Reaching the open door, he looked over the edge to find the ground - a full fifteen feet below. Gritting his teeth nervously, he leapt heroically from the chest of the shuttle and bumbled into a makeshift roll to absorb the impact of his landing.

He strained to a stand, the grass around him whipping about as the ship maintained its buoyancy above him. If that Salarian decided to abandon him at a time like this, then his arse was _haunted_. It'd take more than an exorcist to end his vendetta, make no mistake.

With no time to spare, the white collar took off across the landing zone and began the arduous ascent towards the mesa that Farah Servilia had set up at hours prior. The squeal of metal kept his eyes fixed on the corvette, as it was slowly forced open by a set of spindly arms. This wasn't dramatic or exciting at all. This was bloody _terrifying._

And the colour of terror tended to be yellow. Piss yellow.

By the time he reached the summit, his lungs felt like the inside of an pencil case overflowing with rotting crayons and pencil shavings. Whose stupid idea was it to pick a spot so high up? Whoever made that call must've been a right idiot, that's for sure. He'd give them a piece of his mind at some point, so help him god.

Farah was right where he'd left her, flat on her back with her head against her rifle like it was a can of cola fresh from the fridge on a boiling day. The Turian's eye was shut tight, making her look very much like an infant pretending to be asleep when their parents checked up on them.

 **"Oi, Farah!"** he called, falling to a crouch and taking a knee. Taking note of the increasingly bleak state of the barricade, he glared at the sniper furiously. **"You mind gettin' your arse into gear? We got a problem!"**

A single eye span to meet him, filled to the brim with spite and disdain. **"Are you having second thoughts, Saxon?"** she sneered, calmly ignoring the translucent liquid leaking from her sockets. **"I haven't gotten what I came here for yet. We had a deal."**

 **"A** _ **deal**_ **?"** he echoed, jabbing an accusatory finger at the ever-present Banshee. **"Mind dealing with** _ **that**_ **? It went through the Vorcha like they were a packet of freakin' Pringles!"** Saxon leant against the butt of his rifle. **"Call me a wit, but I think the deal's gone off!"**

 **"I'm** _ **not**_ **going."** she insisted, turning over onto her side like a sulking kid. **"If you want to be whiny little shit, then** _ **sod off**_ **."**

 _Who taught her to swear like that?_

 _What would her mother think, the bitch?_

A world-endingly loud noise echoed through the valley as the ramp at last buckled under the pressure, the Banshee shoving it aside and sending it flying across the ground like a skipping stone. The Reaper stood ominously as a faint silhouette within the corvette's loading bay for a moment, almost as if she was an ill intentioned spirit that needed permission to leave her home.

But then there was a flash.

And another, and another.

Every few seconds there was a flare of energy, as slowly but surely she advanced. Teleportation. _Great._ Just another thing to add to her list of impossible powers. The creature bellowed mightily, and as if this was a call to action Farah rolled onto the flat of her stomach and lined up her scope for another go.

She took the shot, yet surprise surprise it came wide again. A couple of sparks shot out from the corvette's canopy, a tiny scorch mark connoting where her fated bullet had met its end.

 **"** _ **Damn it!**_ **"** she cursed, shaking her head to berate herself. Reaching for her ammo pouch she tried to chamber the next round, yet her trembling butter fingers struggled to keep a grip. It fell onto the grass, forcing her to fumble for it as she loaded. She muttered a mad mantra to herself as she worked, her eye constantly darting between the target and her weapon. **"Come on,** _ **come on**_ **!"**

Saxon crawled over to her side, watching on as she frantically tried to ready herself for the next attempt. You know, for such an apathetic foul mouthed badass she was a _terrible_ shot. Was she purposefully missing? Was she trying to make the situation just a little bit more dramatic? Because he'd already said his spiel about that topic.

 **"You're a piss poor shot you know."** he said just before she let the next bullet loose. That one flew off into the orbit, no doubt beginning a perilous journey throughout the stars as a piece of frozen space debris. In a couple of centuries it'd probably crash into a developing world, and no doubt become a symbol for a Neanderthal's budding religion. Saxon winced, **"Jesus Christ. Wanna borrow my specs love?"**

Gritting her teeth in anger, she readied herself for yet another try. His attempts to goad her were certainly getting under her leathery set of skin, which was fantastic. He _wanted_ her to be frustrated. Was it not a Welsh proverb that in battle, anger is as good as courage?

 _Alongside "Blame everything on the English"._

 _That was a proverb for both of the bloody Isles._

 **"You know which end the bullet comes out of right?"** he questioned, craning his neck. After a moment, he smiled condescendingly. **"Just checkin'. You're a clever Turian aren't you? Well, for a girl at least."**

 **"** _ **Reanna!"**_ she shrieked painfully, her gunshot muted by her bestial cry. He could see the bullet as it travelled through the air, spinning about like a dreidel before slamming the Banshee square in its forehead. Pixels were in it. If you got out a compass and ruler, drew a couple of lines and did a few equations it would be absolutely dead centre.

Farah's mouth was agape as the Reaper reeled back, scrambling to a crouch whilst babbling to herself inanely. Saxon couldn't decipher most of it, but he did hear the phrase " _Oh_ _god_." at least a dozen times.

With a sickening crack of bone and sinew the Banshee stood upright again, not looking that much worse for wear. The shot hadn't even left a dent. It was so insignificant it'd hardly even noticed - like the bullet was a fly splattering onto her windscreen in the pouring rain.

Following the sound of the sniper rifle, the Banshee began to hasten its movements with newfound vigour. It warped left and right in a killer zig zag, throwing off even the most skilled set of eyes. The Turian quickly returned to loading, wobbling on her knee and her stump. **"I need to kill it."** she muttered to no one in particular. She trained her weapon at it, its unruly weight sending the barrel waving back and forth like a wonky fishing pole. **"It needs to _die_!"**

With the percussion of a sniper rifle drilling into his ears, Saxon desperately tried to get a hold of the shuttle's comms. Static scratched at his ears as he reached the right channel. **"Swinks, where the** _ **hell**_ **are you?"**

 **"Pulling in."** the Salarian announced conveniently, the shuttle cresting over the back of the mesa. This sort of emergency tactical withdrawal wasn't the easiest thing to pull off. Certainly wasn't the safest. Swinks buzzed on the comm. **"Dangerous, stand back."**

 **"If I had to pick between a zombie robot alien monster thing and a shoddy space ship, I'd go for the latter."** the C-Sec officer muttered snarkily. He wasn't a daredevil, but he'd take his chances. There was another gunshot, followed by more frantic gibberish from the foul-mouthed sniper. They were running out of time. **"Get down here, young man!"**

Slowly but surely Swinks pulled down, awkwardly keeping the shuttle aloft by the side of the mesa whilst leaving as small as a gap as he could between them. Without a moment's hesitation Saxon turned to the peculiar form of the one-legged woman, who continued to squeeze the trigger of her empty weapon to produce a chorus of clicks. Giving subtlety the slip for a moment, Saxon made to grab her and pull her back to the shuttle whether she wanted to or not.

But he underestimated the strength of the Turian. Within an instant she clung onto his rifle and shoved him away, sending him stumbling for his feet. Balancing on her stump, Farah aimed his _Avenger_ in the vague vicinity of the Banshee and fired full auto, scattering bullets to and fro.

The buffeting ended with that eye twitching click once again, the rifle's thermal clip bursting out with a puff of steam and a whine of overheat klaxons. Shouting with anger she threw the gun forward ineffectually, as if hoping to clobber the Reaper square in the jaw with it. _**"Reanna!"**_ she shrieked once again. If the Banshee had whites in her eyes, you would've been able to see them at this distance. **"** _ **Reanna!**_ **"**

As if one last scream had squeezed the rest of her fury out like an overused tube of toothpaste, she finally stopped resisting Saxon's efforts to save her. Draping her arm over his shoulder the pair made a peculiar three-legged run up to the shuttle, holding onto their hearts for a few nervous moments as they leapt through the air and crashed into the ship's bay in a crumpled heap. Saxon clumsily dropped Farah onto the floor to find her own seating, clawing towards the cockpit like a bat out of hell. He shouted what they were all thinking. **"Get us out of here!"**

The ship settled like the shoulders of a sighing man, slowly breaking away from the summit and drifting toward the sky. The Banshee continued its chorus of biotic jumps, phasing in and out of existence until at last it reached the mesa that the pair had inhabited some twenty seconds prior. The Reaper stared up at them like a puppy at a fireworks show, almost looking forlorn on her lonesome.

Saxon turned back to the shuttle's main bay, only to spot Farah returning the abomination's gaze through the wide open door. For the briefest of moments there almost seemed to be harmony between them, both Farah and the beast's eyes neutral - their fires dampened for but a moment. The Turian raised her hand, reaching out for her as if desperate to caress the monstrosity's cheeks for wayward tears.

But then its features contorted, its bones twisted, and the peace shattered like glass in an opera house as she screamed her blood chilling scream. Farah shook like nails had been dragged down a chalkboard, as realisation began to settle in her veins. With that the doors at last hissed shut, and the shuttle shot off into outer space.

Farah mumbled to herself meekly, her arm dropping limply to her side. **"Reanna..."**

Silence filled the shuttle for a few minutes, the adrenaline and zeal of the moment simmering down as they caught their breaths. Mere moments ago they felt like they could shift mountains with one flex of their arms. Now they felt clumsy and heavy, their muscles begging for a five year furlough. **"Entering orbit."** Swinks updated formally, supposedly not sharing their state of exhaustion. **"Returning to Citadel."**

Leaning against the wall as he went, Saxon slowly but surely found himself a seat opposite of the Turian. Plopping himself down with a unappealing groan of discomfort, he fumbled for the release of his stuffy helmet. With a hiss of vacuum seals that would put all but the bravest housecat on the edge, he peeled the unwieldy lump of armour away.

He felt like how he looked. Like complete and utter shit. His face wasn't glistening with the heavenly glow of a post-natal woman with a beautiful baby in one arm and a bouquet of daisies in the other, but rather with generic cookie-cutter sweat. And there was nothing pleasant about a sweaty bloke who smelt like the colour yellow. That's just nasty.

Saxon shook his head like a shaggy dog, his matted hair whipping back and forth and sending juice and grime absolutely everywhere. There was enough grease on his forehead for a deep fat fry up. You could've held a barbeque on his face for all your relatives on the family tree, from siblings to your mother's father's dog's cat's previous owner twice removed.

He scowled, shooting a vicious glare to the woman opposite him. She sat on the floor in a fashion that almost looked vulnerable. As if she felt violated by the day's events. Staring at her single foot for a time, she eventually spoke - her head remaining downcast. **"... Go on then."** she croaked cynically. **"Say it."**

 _Oh, he'd say it alright._

 **"It should come as no surprise."** Saxon began, broadening his posture like he was doing some sort of speech. He wove his fingers together, massaging his knuckles. He needed to release some tension. **"But I'm a little bit** _ **pissed off**_ **at the moment."**

Exhaling loudly Farah leant back against the seat her rear had missed, resting her head on the woeful excuse for a cushion. It did horrors to your arse, make no mistake. Her whole " _I'm not bothered with anything_ " act was starting to get a hell of a lot more irritating. **"Better to be pissed off than to be pissed on, Saxon."**

 **"You came here for somethin'."** the white collar deduced masterfully, his brow scrunched. He leant forward, piercing her personal bubble with the point of his nose. **"It was that Reaper, weren't it? You** _ **knew**_ **it was here."**

There was no response. After a moment she cast off her stare to the right, her eyelid fluttering with tedium. She was starting to look like that badly behaved girl at school who wore skirts that went above the knee, being berated by a teacher for smoking on the grounds. She just needed to be chewing gum and kissing her teeth to perfect the image.

 **"Why the hell didn't you tell us we were up against..."** Saxon struggled to find an appropriate word. It was difficult enough to imagine that sickening face once again. **"...** _ **That**_ **?"**

Her head spun at the neck a quarter, at last turning to face him. She lay her rifle across her lap, tapping at its side rapidly. Had she recovered from that sudden burst of rage on the mesa? He wasn't in the mood to be throttled by a disabled sniper. **"Because you wouldn't have taken the job then, would you?"**

The way she answered that so matter-of-factly really brought his piss to a boil. Did she need reminding? **"Five people are dead, Farah."**

 **"They'll be forgotten."** she answered bluntly, casually tending to her weapon. **"Don't you worry."**

Saxon sneered with contempt, swinging a quick glance at the open door to the cockpit. Swinks stared on ahead at the vast blackness of space, his hands floating over the controls in complete and total silence. The bastard had a free pass out of this conversation. Lucky bloke.

She'd made a fair point to be frank, as unsettling as it was. If _he'd_ died down there, he wouldn't have been missed. No one would look for him. He'd just be another missing person on the Citadel's memorial wall. And that was being optimistic. Saxon continued his little quiz. **"So you want to kill that Reaper?"**

Farah made a noise. It sounded like a guttural equivalent of " _yes_ " that you tended to get back on Earth from bored husbands, but god knows if it was an agreed upon sound between species. It could've meant " _Go_ _shove a cucumber up your arse you smelly pillock_ " to Turians for all he knew.

He couldn't believe he was about to say the movie-esque phrase, but there was no better option. **"The game's up."** he shuddered, cringing at his choice of words. **"Just tell me. Gimme the full picture."**

Silence.

This woman loved her awkward silences, didn't she?

Leaving him hanging for a few seconds, she painfully pulled herself up onto her chair using her rifle as leverage. Sighing heavily when she at last reached her destination, she spoke. **"... Farah Servilia, widow to Reanna Servilia. A Turian and an Asari, sitting in a tree."** she said bitterly. Licking her sharp fangs, her eye snapped to his viciously. **"That Banshee? You're talking about my wife."**

Well, that confirmed Swinks suspicions. Call it a nitpick, but did it actually count as lesbianism if it was a woman with an Asari? Regardless, that wasn't important right now. Was she aware of the implications of what she'd just said? **"... Your wife was an Ardakt-Yakshi?"**

Mrs Servilia scowled, knowing full well what he was thinking. He was thinking the exact same damn thing as every other person who knew about Reanna and her. Everyone was judgmental of the pair from day one. **"I was aware. She was open to me about it."** she fumed, her chest rising in defiance. **"Don't think I tripped on my own tongue or drowned in my own drool around her. It was love. Healthy, lovely... _Love_."**

Christ, that sounded like lyrics from a crappy valentine song. The C-Sec officer folded his arms, keeping an ear focused on the bucket of exposition she was daring to pour all over him.

So that Banshee was her wife? It seemed pretty bloody ridiculous, if you don't mind him saying. Like the sort of thing you'd see in a straight-to-datadisc film or a shoddy fanfiction. The most dramatic thing he'd ever experienced in his short and uneventful life was the midnight release of the limited edition Turian Grey Chocolate in the Citadel's upper wards before he'd gotten his job in security. You'd be surprised how nuts collectors went for Turian nuts. They just packed them in plastic bags and hid them away, forever uneaten.

 **"Beautiful young woman..."** Farah exhaled dreamily, the foreign shape of a smile filling her non-existent lips. He honestly wished she'd stop, because it looked less pleasant and more horrifying. **"So frail and vulnerable, yet... She had a fire about her**." her eye twitched, before she shrugged her shoulders. She must've sounded like she was at a counselling session. **"I'd never felt for someone like** _ **that**_ **before. Hell, didn't even know Asari were my thing."**

The ship wobbled a bit, taking a buffeting from the forces of the great black. Swinks muttered a restrained " _sorry_ " over the comms, just to remind everyone that he was still here. He was probably all ears, having his own reserved thoughts about the revelations at hand.

 _Salarians never slept after all._

 **"When the Reapers came, we were on Palaven."** she suddenly flashed forward, skipping the juicy bits. Her fists were balled with fury, the sights and smells of her burning home world having been branded onto her retina. **"They just kept coming and coming, like Apien lice out of woodwork..."** she smirked with recollection, **"She was always so scared and worried. It was pretty damn cute."**

Them Reapers really had a knack for throwing spanners in the works, didn't they ? He'd heard a lot about the situation on Palaven from fellow members of C-Sec and idle chatter amongst the refugees he processed. The entire freakin' galaxy was in dire straits, just like Earth. Every single person in the god damn universe had been effected in some way.

Him? He was just glad that Essex was probably up to its neck with the things at the moment. Screw Essex, he hated those guys. Don't get him started on their rugby club.

 **"They took her from me."** Farah snarled ferally, her back teeth looking a lot sharper when she was seething with anger. **"Pried her right out of my arms, just like that."** she looked up at Saxon right then and there, a strange sadness filling his features. It struck a chord somewhere inside him. That shared feeling of understanding that all people got when they saw something vulnerable, like a cute puppy or a failing politician. **"I-I kicked and I screamed, bit and clawed, but there were just too many."** she sagged in defeat. She nodded at her leg, which twitched limply as if waving hello. **"They... Took a couple of souvenirs from me."**

Lord knows how she managed to beat her way through a horde of Reapers and come out still living. Had she ripped off her own leg and used it as a club or something? The biggest implication he was getting from this was that she'd rehabilitated herself into life without an entire leg in at most four months. The word " _impressive_ " didn't do her justice.

 **"I learnt something from that day."** she said with an unsettling monotone. She wringed her rifle like it was an animal's throat. **"I learnt just how easy it is to have everything taken from you. How one small slip can spell the end of it all."**

She did it so quickly that he almost missed it. One of her hands, adorned with three fingers, ran along her face like she was messing with a stray bit of hair. Was she wiping a tear? **"She was everything to me..."** she sighed pathetically, managing to restrain her trembling mouth. **"Really puts life in perspective, doesn't it?** **There just aren't many people worth the risk of befriending."**

That explained why she was about as hostile as a Krogan warlord if you stepped in on him with his pants around his ankles masturbating to Quarian pornography. Femdom pornography. To put it simply, Farah Servilia wasn't too bothered with making friends. Was there really much point when we all die in the end?

 _Wow, that was freakin' dark._

 **"I've been tracking her down for months. Trying to hem her in."** her hands ran along her rifle's body like a blind person with their cane, caressing and massaging it affectionately. She was beginning to sound a bit like that one kid at school who's obsessed with gore films, which wasn't particularly pleasant. **"I want to be the one to pull the trigger. To kill her. To release her from whatever those filthy** _ **shits**_ **have done to her."**

She was bloody nuts, weren't she? The weight of her loss, her refusal to seek help, her life dedicated to poxy revenge, months upon months of phantom pains. It'd all gotten to her head. Retribution was all the poor cow lived for. Didn't she know that you couldn't always be Batman? Sometimes, believe it or not, you had to be Robin. Had to have the guts and the self-control to know when the odds are too great, and the clarity to know your limits and to be able to back down.

Had she ever read DC?

 **"You were the bait."** she revealed bluntly, catching him off guard. **"She wouldn't come out unless she had something to munch on. You did quite well. I'm impressed."**

Well, he couldn't say he was _totally_ cross. She'd dampened the blow a bit with all the tedium, letting his fury subside just a bit before spilling the beans. The daft Turian had hired seven people for the express purpose of throwing their spuds into the fire. No wonder why she was so reluctant to laugh at his incredibly witty analogies. **"You failed though."** Saxon concluded. They'd tried to fight the Banshee, and been forced to flee with their tails between their legs. And humans, Salarian and Turians didn't even have tails. **"It's over."**

Farah smirked bitterly, a dry chuckle devoid of warmth crawling out of her gob. " **You aren't the first, Saxon. And you aren't the last."** she said unsettlingly, swinging her rifle out and resting it against the seat by her side. Just how many people had she hired in the past? How many times had she tried to finish her mission, only for her emotions to pull at her barrel and jog at her elbows? **"This won't be over until one of us is dead."**

She stopped talking after that, perfectly content with hanging about in her own little world.

Wow.

What a _sad_ person, dedicating what was left of her tragic life to hunting down a dead woman. In Saxon's eyes, and his honest opinion, what was the bloody point of it? If Reanna Servilia really loved her, she'd want her to move on with her life wouldn't she? Could you truly wish for the person you love to dedicate every hour of every day to retribution?

Saxon spared her a glance. He wasn't good with ages when it came to Turians, but she was probably no more than a year or two older than him. Not that she looked it, her eyes bagged and her skin dull. The stupid bitch was _killing_ herself with the strain and stress of her measly existence.

Did Farah's wife truly want this? Probably not.

But then who was he but a simple desk worker?

They returned to the Citadel a few hours later, having made no profit from the day's efforts whatsoever. With nothing more than a few muttered farewells, the trio parted and went their separate ways. No doubt Farah would continue her fruitless hunt, from now until the day it finally killed her.

As for Saxon and Swinks, life would go on as usual. The entire fracas was never mentioned to the bossman. For all C-Sec knew Saxon had spent the weekend laying in bed with a runny nose, eating or drinking crummy soup.

There was probably an important lesson to be learnt from the events that had transpired on that fateful day, but for Alfred Saxon it meant little. He was a layman. He wasn't meant to tell tall tales, or stand their laughing with the rest of the crew as the screen cut to credits.

In his smelly old office, the wispy draught of the broken wall continuing to fondle his bare bits, the white collar leant back in his creaky swivel chair. He had a craving at the moment, you know. And it was for Tuchankan Caviar.

After a phone call or two and a cheeky lunch break, Saxon and Swinks met at _Purgatory_ and found themselves seats. A nice, secluded section away from the cop killers and raving drunks having a rave. Soon enough they were nibbling on eggs, doing their best to avoid touching the glowing bits.

 **"Do me a favour bloke."** Saxon requested, wincing with distaste as the Salarian popped a pair into his mouth and chewed them loudly. He'd had his fill of adventure, he felt. There were papers to fill in.

 **"Remind me to never quit the day job."**

X

 _(A/N): EXPOSITORY BANTER AT ITS FULLEST_

 _The entire point of this fic was to build up to the revelation in this chapter about Farah's motives, but it seems I mucked that all up and completely butchered the delivery. That's a dosh gern shame, make no mistake :l_

 _Oh well, what's done is done! With university around the corner I'm considering perhaps taking a bit of a hiatus to get my bits together. I don't see myself expanding this into a potential series any time soon, but I still have my character sheets for a bunch of other characters. And besides, I've got TES to write!_

 _God speed, and sorry!_


End file.
